If I Don't See You
by NightScriber
Summary: You're a surgeon. You can dance through internal organs with one hand behind your back, but this whole feelings thing you've flunked out on since third grade. So let it go. You're going home. Let him go.


_Notes: __It always bothered me that Trapper left Hawkeye behind in Korea with nothing but that secondhand kiss from Radar. It always seemed so out of character. So I did some thinking about what might have stopped him from leaving something more. This is the result._

* * *

**If I Don't See You**

_HAWKEYE: Hey. If I don't see you… Merry Christmas._

_TRAPPER: Tell me when you see me._

* * *

Trapper finished washing his hands and arms, wincing slightly at the contact of the water on his scrubbed-raw skin. Beside him Hawkeye was doing the same, sluicing away the blood of assorted young men who'd been passing through the OR for a steady twenty hours. As Trapper turned off the tap and reached for a towel, Hawkeye proclaimed with a tragic expression, "This place is giving me dishpan hands. I'll never find the woman of my dreams now."

Trapper picked up another towel and tossed it to his friend. "I think it's more your wandering hands that the women here worry about."

"I love to go a-wandering, along a nurse's track; And as I go, I love to sing, with my medkit on my back." Hawkeye towelled off his wet hands, belting out the Scouting song with false heartiness. "Val-deri, Val-dera; Val-deri; Valdera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Val-deri…"

"I can believe most things about your shady past, but not that you were ever a Boy Scout," commented Trapper. "They've got to keep up some standards, even in Maine."

"Sad but true," Hawkeye replied. "I discovered early on that I have an allergy to uniforms. And to discipline. Also saluting."

"You can get treatment for that."

"I'm trying aversion therapy," Hawkeye answered. Behind them the OR doors swung open as Frank came into the scrub room, closely followed by Margaret. "Pierce, MacIntyre!"

"Oh good, here's my therapist now," Hawkeye commented, sitting down heavily on one of the benches. Still standing, Trapper took advantage of a direct view of the laundry bin to make a near perfect lob with his balled-up towel. Hawkeye leaned back against the wall. "He shoots, he scores: the crowd goes wild."

"I was speaking, Pierce!" Frank stepped centre stage, fixing them both with what he evidently intended to be a quelling gaze. Unfortunately for Frank, it came out as his more usual deer-in-the-headlights stare. Hawkeye raised a gracious hand. "I yield the floor to the insistent major from Indiana."

Frank quivered at that one, but evidently decided to let it go by. "You two certainly skedaddled out of the OR in double-quick time."

"We finally ran out of wounded," Trapper responded. "It seemed like a good point to leave."

"Well, as commanding officer here, I decide when it's time for medical staff to go off duty." Frank stuck out what had to be called, for lack of a better word, his chin.

"Sure, Frank." Hawkeye regarded him with what Trapper recognised was his deceptively compliant expression. "And afterwards, will you come read us a bedtime story?"

"I want Little Red Riding Hood," Trapper put in. "I always get a kick out of the ending."

Margaret, who'd been hovering at Frank's elbow with an expression that suggested she was restraining herself with difficulty from butting in, apparently decided that restraint could go only so far. "You two have no respect for military discipline!"

"Guilty as charged," Hawkeye answered, raising a hand.

Trapper nodded at Margaret, lifting his own hand in agreement. "What he said."

"But there are extenuating circumstances to which I would like to draw the attention of this courtroom: we are not military. We are _doctors_." The way Hawkeye spoke this last word conveyed a world of frustration barely held in at the end of a twenty-hour shift. "I realise this may be a hard fact to hold onto, Frank, given the conditions under which we work in that room laughably called an OR, but fact it is. I didn't join this man's army, I was press-ganged. I'm here as a surgeon. I'll do everything that being a surgeon in this pestilence-ridden hole requires. Anything else, you can leave a message with my answering service."

Frank folded his arms. "Like it or not, Pierce, you are a _captain_ in the US army. And I am a major. Your superior officer," he added pointedly. "And therefore I expect a certain amount of respect from you, especially in front of the lesser ranks in the OR!"

" 'Lesser ranks' ?" Trapper wasn't going to take that one. "Where do you get your dialogue from, Frank – Joseph Goebbels?"

"He was away the day they covered in class that whole bit about all men being created equal," explained Hawkeye. "That was the week he came down with a severe case of tunnel vision. Which he has yet to recover from."

"What Major Burns is saying, is that as officers you should be setting an example!" exclaimed Margaret, bristling on her paramour's behalf. "By not showing him the respect he's entitled to as your superior officer, you are undermining his authority with the enlisted men - and lowering morale."

"Oh, I think Frank's more than capable of doing that without any help from us," responded Hawkeye.

Frank stepped a little closer to them. "That's the last crack I want to hear out of either of you pair of wisenheimers! The next time we go into that OR, the only conversation that takes in place in there should be for medical reasons."

"Does that include giving you suggestions where to look the next time you can't find a kid's pancreas?" Trapper knew that would pour oil onto the fire, but he was beyond caring.

"That wasn't my fault! That casualty was a mess!" Frank blustered.

"Take a note: all tidy casualties to be reserved for Major Burns' table." Hawkeye nodded at Trapper, who grinned.

Frank appeared to throw caution to the winds. He jabbed a finger towards Hawkeye. "I mean it, Pierce! I've had enough of your wisecracks." He turned towards Trapper and poked the same finger emphatically at him. "And that goes for you too, MacIntyre. I won't stand for this insubordination any longer."

Trapper regarded the pointing finger that hovered an inch away from his nose, then slowly raised his gaze to meet Frank's eyes. After a beat, he said in measured tones, "Frank, unless you plan on doing something with that finger, quit waving it in my face."

Hawkeye looked across at his friend, hearing the change in Trapper's voice. Quickly he got to his feet, interposing himself between the two men. "Uh, I think it may be time to draw this conversation to an end, Frank. Entertaining as it always is to receive your little pep talks." As Frank turned an angry expression on him, Hawkeye met it with a smile. "I can certainly say that my morale has been deeply affected by this timely discussion. What say we call it a day? Being as how we're all on the wrong end of a pretty long shift, and we wouldn't want any of us to say or do anything we might regret afterwards."

There was a moment's silence, during which Frank appeared to be considering his options. His eyes flickered between Hawkeye's smile, to Trapper's lack of one – then he reached a decision. Slowly he withdrew his finger and stepped back a little, pursing his lips. "Well – all right. But you two better pay attention to what I've just said."

"We've taken it to heart, Frank." Hawkeye turned away: he met Trapper's gaze with a look that signalled clearly _Let's get the hell out of here._

Trapper felt a dangerous moment pass: one he hadn't even been aware was dangerous until he felt his shoulders drop back down and his hands unclench. Managing a smile at Frank himself, he also turned away. "Yeah. Sure. Message received and understood." They were halfway across the room to the door when Frank's nasal inquiry reached them. "And just where do you think the two of you are going?"

They both stopped: Trapper met Hawkeye's gaze a second time. Beating his friend to the reply, he answered for them both. "Well, after we've done a couple of nocturnal laps of the compound to work off our excess energy, I figure we'll be conducting a lengthy study of the insides of our eyelids."

Frank's mouth twitched. "Well, don't forget you're back on duty at oh-seven hundred, MacIntyre."

"I won't forget, Frank." Trapper turned away with Hawkeye towards the exit, and this time they both kept on going.

On reaching the Swamp, Hawkeye flung himself onto his cot with an exaggerated sigh of exhaustion. "Ohhh… I dimly remember this. Lying down. It's one of the better positions."

Moving to the still and picking up the measuring cylinder, Trapper made no reply. Hawkeye propped himself up on his elbows and regarded him. "Speaking of which… I get the feeling you were itching to put Frank into a horizontal position himself, back there."

Trapper decanted the newest batch of ersatz gin into the glass cylinder. "He was sucking around for some dental work."

"And you were ready to oblige him? Tut, Trapper… That isn't conduct becoming an officer and a gentleman."

"No shit." Trapper filled a couple of martini glasses and handed one across to his friend. "One day soon Frank's gonna take that superior officer baloney a step too far. I've had it up to here with him laying on the regular army routine."

"Don't let him get to you." Hawkeye took a sip of what was in his glass and grimaced. "This gin is not so much young as pre-term."

"Don't tell me he isn't plucking your last nerve too, Hawk. I've seen how you've been looking at him lately."

"True." Hawkeye took another swig of nearly-gin. "There are times recently when the thought of punching Frank to the ground has me sitting on my hands in case they do it when I'm not looking."

"Well, it worked out pretty good last time. You missed getting court-martialled by, oh, just about the skin of your teeth. Where's the harm in going for it again?"

"I hear Leavenworth has very nice leisure facilities."

"That's good. You can use them to wind down after a hard day of breaking rocks into gravel."

"How much worse can it be than here?"

"We're talking prison, run by the army. You really want to make it a personal project to find out?"

"At least I'd have a change of company when I'm in the shower."

"That's not all you'd have in the shower." Trapper nodded at him. "I'd give it some more thought, if I were you."

"Mental note to self: think more about punching Frank." Hawkeye took another swallow of gin. "Hey, it's working. I feel better already."

Trapper grunted, sitting down on the edge of his cot and taking a gulp of his own drink. The bitter burn of the raw spirits made his mouth twist. "Whoa..." He regarded his glass with a frown, then took a second mouthful. "Jesus. Did you change the recipe?"

"I left out the rat droppings. Didn't we agree on that this time?"

"Just don't tell me what you left in." Trapper felt the alcohol burning a sour trail down to his stomach, which after twenty hours of meatball surgery punctuated only by several cups of coffee and a stale mess tent sandwich was not in a happy state to receive new input. He waited for a moment after swallowing. After his episode with the stomach ulcer a few months back, there was always the fear at the back of his mind that it could recur: that sooner or later his guts would strenuously object again to the punishing regime of self-administered anaesthetic that they pursued here. But after a few seconds, the fire died down. He took a breath, then took another dose. "Hell… Well, at least this stuff blends in. It's as lousy as everything else round here at the moment."

"Frank's rousing little speech didn't fill you with joie de vivre?"

"I'd like to fill him with something, and it won't be joy." Trapper thought back to the scene in the scrub room. "Is it just me, or is he worse now he's actually in charge?"

"Him and Hotlips both. They're like a pair of Borgias reigning over their fiefdom." Hawkeye parked his drink on the crate next to his cot and lay back flat again. "I wonder what it's doing for their sex life."

"_That's_ an image I didn't need just before I sack out."

"Really?" Hawkeye sounded like he was heading off on a train of fantasy that would not be derailed. "Can't you just picture it? Frank giving Hotlips a thorough briefing over a desk; her kissing his clusters - "

"Hawk: enough. It's bad enough we have to be around the guy twenty hours a day or more. Can we quit talking about him, now he's not actually in the room?"

"Spoilsport." There was about thirty seconds of silence, then: "So what do you want to talk about?"

Trapper found his gaze had drifted sideways, to where his photo of Louise, Becky and Kathy stood on the crate beside his bed. He looked at them for a few seconds longer… Then dragged his eyes away. "Nothing." He knocked back the last gulp of gin in his glass, then began hauling off his fatigues. "I just want to sack out and not think about how I'm back on duty in - " he glanced at his watch " - about five hours."

"The joys of being one surgeon down on our full complement." Hawkeye swung himself up again from his cot and crossed to the still, topping up his glass. "Or two surgeons down, if you don't count Frank. Which nobody does, except him and Hotlips." He held the gin out to Trapper. "Freshen your glass for you, sir?"

Trapper thought about the likelihood of another slug of moonshine compounding the misery of having to get up in five hours' time… Then decided he didn't care. He nodded at his glass and watched Hawkeye fill it to the brim. "I just wish the army would get off its keister and send us a replacement for Henry."

"A replacement surgeon, or a replacement CO?"

"Both would be nice." Trapper swung his legs up onto his cot and sat back. "We're running on the raggedy edge of possible here. We get a major deluge of casualties and we're gonna start losing wounded, big time. And even if we don't… How much longer are we supposed to go on working these kinds of hours? We're all of us getting so damn tired, sooner or later we're going to make a mistake in there."

"I hear you." Hawkeye sat down again on his own cot. "I'd kill for a week's R and R. Just seven days away from this place and a ticket to Tokyo. Hell, even _three _days in Tokyo. I'd walk there if they gave us a pass."

"Fat chance of that happening while Frank's in charge," responded Trapper. "I think he's made it his mission in life to make sure that no-one escapes while he's on duty."

"Maybe I can steal a jeep and go AWOL," mused Hawkeye. "I'll change my name and grow a moustache. Having to spend the remainder of my days hiding out in South America would be a small price to pay for never having to see Frank Burns again."

"Fifty bucks says you don't get further than Kimpo before the MPs catch you." Trapper had a sense that Hawkeye was only half in jest: the thoughtful look on his friend's face was a danger signal that not many other people could read. "And I bet Frank would just love an excuse to put you under house arrest again."

"O ye of little faith."

"And think of all the paperwork that Radar would have to do when they court-martialled you. Have a heart." Trapper knew this was a reliably effective guilt-trigger. "Frank's been running him ragged since he stepped into the Oval Office. You want to make the kid's life any more of a misery than it already is?"

"Okay, okay!" Hawkeye slumped down on his cot. "I won't go AWOL."

"Good." Trapper finished his drink then also lay down, arms folded behind his head.

After a brief silence, Hawkeye spoke again. "And you're right."

"Great. Glad to hear it." Trapper glanced sideways. "About what, exactly?"

"Radar. I don't think he's had a moment's peace since Frank took over. Frank's had him at his beck and call day and night. Radar was telling me he keeps being woken up at five am by Frank digging him in the ribs and reading him the riot act about how he's failing to carry out his duty by not rousing his commanding officer. Or something like that."

"Rousing or arousing? Because I'm pretty sure Hotlips has got the latter covered."

"At least you and me can give Frank as good as we get, more or less. Radar's just got to sit there and take it."

"He'll be okay. Frank won't be in charge forever."

"You think?" Hawkeye sounded direful. "Given how long it takes the army to do anything here, I wouldn't pin my hopes on a change of command in the near future. They probably figure with Frank holding the fort, the 4077 is doing just fine."

"If they only knew."

"Yeah." Hawkeye let out a long, heavy sigh. "Jesus… This place always was the pits, but with Frank in charge it's reached new depths. No wonder Radar's lost some of his boyish glee."

"I don't think that's all down to Frank." Trapper weighed his next words before speaking them. "When we lost Henry… You and me both know it hit Radar pretty hard."

"I know." Hawkeye spoke in a voice suddenly stripped of humour. "Goddamnit... Why the hell did Henry have to get sent home? If the army hadn't sent him back stateside, he'd still be alive."

Trapper said nothing, staring up at the ceiling. At times like this, when Hawkeye put into words the dangerous things that no-one else would go near, it was like watching a car wreck. You didn't know how bad the damage was going to be: all you could do was wait and pick up the pieces.

"Shit." Hawkeye sounded like he was trying, and failing, to keep a lid on what was bubbling up. "You know what the worst part is? Sometimes I even catch myself getting mad at Henry. For getting out… while we're left here, stuck with Frank Burns as our CO. I mean, Jesus – the guy's dead, and I'm mad at him. How fucked up is that?"

Trapper said nothing, but internally heard himself reply, _What, you think you're the only one ever has those feelings, Hawk?_ A knot was winding itself tight in his gut: to try to loosen it, he took a long breath in; let it slowly out.

"I really hate this place." Hawkeye's voice was low.

"No-one's crazy about it." Trapper couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"Then why the hell are we all still here?"

"Because, as you once pointed out to me, us leaving without the army's seal of approval would not end well."

"Henry got his orders to go home, and where did he wind up? Falling in a hundred pieces into the Sea of Japan, before he ever got a chance to see his wife and kids again. Including one kid he had yet to even _meet_."

Trapper blinked up at the ceiling. Sometimes he wondered if Hawkeye always knew the impact his words had on people. Or if, like now, he was so caught up in his own unhappiness that he didn't make the connection that talking about a violent and sudden death leaving a family fatherless might not be something that Trapper wanted to dwell on.

"Trap? Are you still with me?"

"Yeah. I'm still here." _Still in Korea._

There was a pause. Then Hawkeye said very quietly, "Just checking."

Trapper closed his eyes. He knew that Hawkeye wanted to hear his own anger mirrored back at him. Anger against the army, the war, the killing-by-numbers that showed no signs of stopping or even slowing down. The problem was, Hawkeye let so much of what was going on around them through his skin, he filled up with it. It could do that to you, unless you kept it at bay with whatever came to hand. Drinking. Screwing around. Gallows humour. Trapper used all of the above, and it still got through his defences.

But the trouble with getting angry like Hawkeye did was that it took energy. And Trapper was tired. Tired of surgery; tired of Frank Burns; tired of Korea. He took a breath in, then said with eyes still closed, "I'm gonna go to sleep now. Wake me when the war's over."

There was a beat, then Hawkeye replied, "Sweet dreams."

* * *

_Trapper's standing in the back yard, facing away from their house, looking out over a broad expanse of parched, rock-strewn ground. A humid heat makes his fatigues stick to his back: sunlight falls across his face, so that he has to shade his eyes with one hand to see. Fifty yards away, in the middle of the open ground, Becky and Kathy are sitting together on the stony earth, playing with dolls. Having a dolls' tea party, tiny china cups and plates spread on a picnic rug._

_A shadow falls over him: he looks up, to see a purple-grey cloud moving across the sky, advancing towards the sun. From behind him he hears Louise call his name: when he looks back, she's standing in the back doorway, arms folded across her chest. "There's a thunderstorm coming," she says warningly. "Call the girls in."_

_He turns, calls the girls' names. They don't look up: continue playing with their dolls. He glances up at the sky again and the cloud has grown darker, menacing. In seconds the heavens will open and rain, lightning, thunder will break over them. He feels panic in his chest, yells his daughters' names again, but they still seem not to hear._

_He has to go and fetch them. In the dead, humid air he starts to walk towards Becky and Kathy, his heavy army boots stumbling over the uneven ground. He has to clamber over barbed wire, past the sign that reads DANGER MINEFIELD. Now each step has to be carefully placed, he has to use his arms to steady himself._

_Then Becky and Kathy look up from their dolls, see him. "Daddy!" They jump to their feet and begin to run towards him. He holds up both hands, horror flooding him as he shouts their names, shouts for them to stop. But they keep on coming and suddenly there is a roar and the earth heaves them all upwards _

Something, someone was shaking his shoulder, jolting him out of sleep. "Trap?"

"Whuh - " Trapper was wide awake and sitting up, gripping hard at the hand on his shoulder before he knew what he was doing.

"Rise and shine, soldier." Hawkeye, doing his best to inject humour into his voice at whatever ungodly hour this was. "Duty calls." Trapper blinked: focused blearily on his friend, then blinked again. Dimly he became aware that the sound of a bugle massacring reveille was filtering through into the Swamp from the compound. "Ohh… Shit."

"And a good morning to you too." Hawkeye let go of his shoulder with an encouraging pat. "Come on. If you don't get a hustle on you'll miss Radar's peerless rendering of the army's top ten show-stopping tunes."

Trapper swung his legs out of his cot and reached for his boots. He got them on and had two tries at tying the laces, before shuffling to the door where Hawkeye waited. As they stepped out into the Korean dawn sunlight, both men winced.

"Ah, the light, it burns." Hawkeye shaded his eyes, hamming up a Transylvanian accent. "Igor, fetch my coffin."

"You do bear a close resemblance to the undead," Trapper rejoined. It was true: Hawkeye looked more tired in the early morning light than he had when they'd gone off duty the night before. "Did you go off nurse hunting after I sacked out?"

"No. After twenty hours of surgery even I'm past my physical prime." They fell into step as they made their unhurried way towards the end of the compound where the other denizens of the 4077 were gathering in front of the still-bugling Radar. Hawkeye gave a half-shrug. "After you fell into the arms of Morpheus I sat up awhile. Finished my latest letter to my dad."

"Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Sure I did. A few more martinis and I went out like a light. I woke up with my notepad for a pillow and my pen sticking in my ear."

By this time they were at the assembling ranks of soldiers and medical staff. Finding their way to the back row, they stood there yawning. At the front, Radar fizzled out with a last strangled squawk, before stowing his bugle under one arm and standing to attention as Frank and Margaret took up station front and centre.

"Radar's going to give himself a hernia if he tries any harder to look like a soldier," commented Trapper.

"If he's lucky it'll get him invalided home." Hawkeye half-closed his eyes against the bright morning light. "Actually, if that works I'm getting one too."

At the front of the assembly, Frank strutted along the rows of enlisted men, scanning them for possible infractions. After several minutes of fruitless inspection he succeeded in spotting that a luckless corpsman had dirty boots: the subsequent dressing-down evidently made Frank's day, lending a certain spring to his step as he resumed his station beside Margaret, in front of the assembled ranks. "Well, men, that could've been better. But that just gives you all something to aim for tomorrow. Let's see if we can't get everything shipshape by then, hmm?"

"Frank thinks he's on a ship," muttered Trapper. "Someone should tell him he needs to get his eyes tested."

"Someone should tell Frank he needs to get his brain tested," responded Hawkeye. "Find out where all the loose connections are."

Frank turned to Radar. "Corporal, dismiss the men!"

"Yessir." Radar raised his voice to a snappy military yell. "Company, dis - miss!"

Quickly people turned away, heading off towards the mess tent or elsewhere. Trapper and Hawkeye were doing likewise when a penetrating voice pursued them. "Not you, Pierce and MacIntyre."

They stopped, exchanging glances, then slowly turned to face their acting CO. Hawkeye stuck his hands in his pockets, assuming a position exaggeratedly at ease. "Morning, Frank. How goes the war?"

Frank glanced around at the dispersing enlisted men, then glared at Hawkeye. "That's _Major_ Burns!"

"Oh, come off it, Frank. We got up at dawn and came to your bugling party," said Trapper. "What more do you want?"

"We'll continue this discussion in my office," said Frank stiffly. Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged glances. Margaret, who had been waiting a few feet away, spoke up. "Major Burns has just given you two an order!"

"That's right! So unless you both want to spend the next month on report, I suggest you step to and report at the double," said Frank, evidently emboldened by Margaret's back-up.

Trapper saw Hawkeye give a tight smile, while a determined glint came into his eyes: two signs that he was about to engage Frank in verbal battle. While Trapper would ordinarily have enjoyed seeing Frank getting demolished by Hawkeye in full flow, he had a sense that this wouldn't be a brief skirmish; and he had only half an hour to eat whatever passed for breakfast in the mess tent and drink enough coffee to keep himself upright through his next shift. So he gave his friend a slight nudge in the ribs, while saying aloud, "Lead on, Frank. We're right behind you."

Once in the CO's office – sporting a large picture of General MacArthur behind the desk – Frank fussed around with paperwork while Hawkeye and Trapper slumped into two chairs. Trapper let his gaze roam briefly around the room, which bore no trace now of Henry Blake. Gone was the clutter of reports waiting to be signed, the children's scrawled pictures mailed from home, the scatter of half-tied fishing lures and grubby golf balls doing duty as paperweights. Gone too was the liquor cabinet: Frank was straight-edge, or at least appeared to be when on duty. The office was inhumanly tidy. Going in there nowadays always made Trapper feel uncomfortable. He didn't believe in ghosts, but the purging of Henry from the room somehow brought him back more strongly than if his old fishing hat was still hanging up in there.

When Frank continued to flip through the folders on the desk in front of him for a full minute, Hawkeye spoke up. "Well, spit it out, Frank. We're all ears."

Frank looked up at them both. "All in good time."

"Frank, I'm on duty in post-op in twenty minutes. This is as good as it's going to get." Trapper fixed him with a level stare. "If you've got something to say, get it said before we all die of old age."

Frank shut the folder he'd been poking through with a _snap_ and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. His light blue eyes fastened on them, flicking between both men. "All right. I told you to come in here because I've got something to get clear between the three of us."

"This sounds serious," remarked Hawkeye. "Should I call my lawyer?"

"Can it, Pierce!" snapped Frank. "I'm not going to tolerate any more of this constant fooling around."

"Does Hotlips know?" queried Trapper.

Frank stood up behind his desk, folding his arms tightly against his chest. "Everything's just one big joke to you two, isn't it? Nothing is sacred – it's just laugh, laugh, laugh, all the time."

"What can we say, Frank. War is hilarious." Hawkeye shrugged.

"Well, laugh this one off." Frank drew himself up. "Here on my desk I have a week's pass to Tokyo, for each of you." At their first surprised, then brightening expressions, he smiled unpleasantly. "Which you won't be receiving."

There were a few seconds of absolute silence, before Hawkeye said very carefully, "Run that by us again, Frank."

Frank grinned, evidently pleased at the effect his announcement had produced. "You heard me. As your commanding officer I have to confirm that I can release you from duty before you can go off on R and R. And I won't be doing that."

There was another silence. Trapper gazed at the malicious little grin on Frank's face for longer than was healthy… Then his eyes switched to Hawkeye. Who was looking at Frank with an expression that promised a world of trouble. When he spoke, Hawkeye's voice betrayed just how close to the edge he was standing. "Let me get this straight. You've got two passes for me and Trapper to get some much-needed leave from this dump. And you're not going to give them to us?"

"That's right." Frank picked up the folder from his desk and waved it at them defiantly. "As your commanding officer, I make the decision about who goes on leave, and when."

Hawkeye stood up. "Frank, how'd you like to have that folder shoved somewhere not even Radar can find it?"

Trapper stood up too as Hawkeye started to move forward, catching hold of his friend's elbow and pulling back on it just enough to stop him. When Hawkeye gave him a quick angry glance, Trapper held his gaze. _Don't do it. Don't give him the excuse he needs._

It was enough. The three of them stood poised, seconds ticking by broken only by the muffled sounds of Radar typing in the outer office. At last Hawkeye dropped back down into his chair. Trapper silently let out the breath he'd been holding and looked across the desk. Frank was a little pale around the gills, clutching the folder to his chest, but there was a determined jut to his jaw that showed he wasn't going to give ground easily.

"Okay, Frank." Hawkeye sounded weary. "What do you want? Snappy salutes? More rocks painted white in the compound? A shrubbery? Name it, it's yours."

"What I _want_," retorted Frank, "is some respect to be shown around here, from the both of you. Respect for the US army. Respect for me, as your CO. Respect for Major Houlihan, as second in command."

"Sure, Frank." Trapper made his best stab at sounding obliging.

"I want you to address me as Major Burns in front of the enlisted men. I want an end to wisecracks in the OR. And I want your co-operation with my efforts to make this camp into a proper military operation."

Hawkeye rested his folded arms on his knees. "And if we do all that… You'll sign off on our passes to Tokyo?"

"If you promise me solemnly, here and now, that you'll do all of those things… Then I'll authorise seven days of R and R in Tokyo."

Trapper and Hawkeye exchanged a quick look, then spoke as one. "We promise."

Frank smiled smugly. "Well, now… I knew we could resolve this little difficulty." He carefully opened the folder and drew out a piece of paper. Raising his voice, he called, "Corporal O'Reilly!" The words had barely left his lips before the office door swung open and Radar entered with his clipboard, standing to attention as he got inside and getting swatted by the door's backswing as he did so. "Yessir!"

Frank stuck the piece of paper out in his direction. "Here is a seven-day pass for Captain Pierce, authorising him to take leave in Tokyo. Organise a jeep and his travel orders."

"Yessir, right away sir." Radar took the sheet of paper with a salute, then gave a grin at Hawkeye. Raising his gaze back to Frank he noticed the major's frown of annoyance: the grin wiped from Radar's face as he quickly turned on his heel and made his escape back to the outer office.

Hawkeye looked at the office door, then at Trapper, and finally back to Frank. "Uh, I may have missed something here, Frank. Didn't you say that you had two passes? One for me and one for Trapper?"

"I do. But I have no intention of letting the both of you go off to Tokyo together."

"Why?"

"Because the last time you two went to Tokyo, you acted in a manner unbecoming to officers in the US army!"

"That's kind of the point of R and R, Frank." Trapper, whose heart was beginning to sink, stated pointedly. "Rest and _relaxation_. We were very relaxed."

"You caused nothing but trouble the whole time you were there!" Frank gestured dramatically with one hand, the other holding the folder – with the remaining pass – clamped to his chest. "Telephone calls from Tokyo at all hours of the day and night, with complaints about your behaviour. It was a disgrace!"

"Be that as it may, we made a deal." Hawkeye leaned forward. "We promised we'd play nice here, and you promised you'd hand over those passes."

"Oh, I will." Frank nodded smugly. "One now, for you, Pierce. And when you return from your R and R, I'll issue the other one to MacIntyre, and he can go."

"You can't do that!" Hawkeye was on his feet again.

"Oh, really?" Frank pointed at the sign on his desk: MAJOR FRANK BURNS COMMANDING OFFICER, then to the major's insignia on his uniform. "These say otherwise, buster."

"Frank." Trapper did his best to make his voice sound reasonable, although it took almost more effort than he could manage. "How about if we promise we'll be on our best behaviour while we're in Tokyo? Will you hand over that other pass for me now, if we do that?"

"No." Frank gave a decisive shake of his head. "We're already short-handed, MacIntyre. I'm not running this hospital down two surgeons." He gave Trapper a short, unpleasant grin. "Don't worry. Tokyo will still be there a week from now."

Both Trapper and Hawkeye were momentarily at a loss for what to come back with, other than something that would involve their fists and Frank's grinning face. Frank took advantage of their uncharacteristic speechlessness to bring their conversation to a close. "Well, I think that's all. MacIntyre, you're on duty in post-op in fifteen minutes. You might want to get a shave before then."

It was too much. Trapper found himself turning without another word and leaving the room. He wasn't even aware that Hawkeye had followed him into the outer office until he felt a hand grip his arm and looked round into his friend's concerned face. "Don't worry, Trap. He can't pull this. We'll get you your pass."

"Forget it." Trapper shook his head. "Let Frank have his moment of glory. You go off and have a week in Tokyo, warm up the girls for me. I'll still get my leave, so what's the difference."

"What's the difference?" Hawkeye sounded incredulous. "You think I can have a good time on R and R, knowing that my best friend is stuck here?"

"Yeah, sure you can. Why not? I would, in your place."

"Ah, c'mon, Trap." Hawkeye sounded frustrated. "You don't have to take this. I'll bet Radar can work something out, right, Radar?"

Peering up from his desk, Radar looked worried. "Uh. I'm not actually sure that I can. Work something out, that is."

"How hard can it be?" Hawkeye encouraged him. "Wait till Frank goes for one of his chats in the supply tent with Hotlips, then get the other pass from his desk and sort out some travel orders - "

"Well, the problem is, he'd know it was me who took them," answered Radar worriedly. "And then I'd be in big trouble, and I'm already getting yelled at pretty much all day, so I'm not sure how much more yelling Major Burns can fit in."

"It's okay, Radar," Trapper reassured him. "Hawk: like I said. Forget it."

"This is a crock." Hawkeye wasn't ready to let it drop. "If Frank thinks he's had problems with us so far, I'm telling you, he ain't seen _nothing_ yet. This little piece of work is going to earn him some major payback. No pun intended."

"Whatever you say." Trapper could see the Hawkeye scheming brain revving up. "I'm with you on the payback project. Just save it until after I've had my R and R too, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." Hawkeye spoke as though his mind was already half elsewhere, planning Frank's downfall. Then he gave himself a shake. "What the hell am I saying? No."

"No, what?"

"No. No to Tokyo. I'm not dancing to Frank's little tune. If he thinks he can play us like this, who knows where he'll stop? I'm not going to give him the satisfaction. I'm going to go back in there and tell him he can put his pass where the sun doesn't shine."

"Uh, before you do that, sir." Radar had been watching them both unhappily. "Both of you sirs. There's something you oughta know."

"What's that?" asked Hawkeye.

"Those passes to Tokyo? They were the last thing that – Colonel Blake did before he left here. He knew the both of you were due some leave pretty soon, so he made sure you got it. I guess he thought maybe Major Burns might, uh, forget, or something."

There was a silence in the room. Radar was looking from Hawkeye to Trapper, and back again. At last, Hawkeye spoke. "Oh."

"I just thought you might want to know that. Before you go giving your pass back to Major Burns."

"You're right. Thanks, Radar." Hawkeye turned to look at Trapper. "Forget everything I just said. I'll go and start packing my bag."

"You do that." Trapper felt a mixture of relief, regret, sadness, anger. Too many warring emotions to manage comfortably, especially with fatigue thrown into the mix. "I'm gonna grab a cup of coffee from the mess tent and get to work. Without a shave." At Hawkeye's questioning look, Trapper answered him with a wry smile. "Screw Frank. I'm going to grow a beard."

Two cups of questionable coffee and several post-op patients later, Trapper found a quiet corner to sit in and write up case notes for a few hours. The nearly-gin from the night before, combined with his early start to the day, had left him with a headache that made focussing on the almost unreadable scrawls on the charts tiresome work. He spent some time trying to decipher one particularly bad scribble, cursing Hawkeye's handwriting under his breath, before he got to the end and recognised his own signature. Massaging his temples, he sat back in the chair and let out a heavy sigh. A quick glance around post-op revealed that all was quiet. Trapper decided a break was in order. Getting up and wandering down the centre aisle, he paused next to where Kellye was hanging a bottle of plasma for a patient.

"Hey. I'm just gonna take a break for lunch. Yell if anyone needs me."

"Okay." Kellye gave him a nod.

Trapper headed out of the door and into the bright sunshine of the compound. The air felt cool after the stuffiness of post-op: he shut his eyes for a moment and breathed in and out. Opening his eyes and glancing up at the blue sky, he wondered whether to use his break to eat lunch or enjoy the good weather. But however bad lunch was going to be – and lunch was always reliably bad – he knew he needed to eat. More coffee wasn't going to cut it: he still had four hours of a shift to get through before he could reclaim the blessed sanctuary of his bunk.

The mess tent was getting busy when he entered. He took a tray and queued for the day's lunch – fish and something yellow, served with something green – before sitting down at a table. The food tasted like everything he'd ever eaten in the mess tent, even after he'd obscured it with ketchup. He fetched a mug of coffee and poured in sugar until the spoon almost stood up in the cup, then took a warm, sweet sip. It wasn't anywhere near strong enough but sugar was sugar. He could almost feel his brain coming back up to speed.

"Any room at this table, or are you saving it for someone special?" Hawkeye came into view, his own laden mess tray in one hand. Trapper gestured at the empty seat opposite.

"I was saving it for Marilyn Monroe, but she just called and told me she had a better offer."

"I find that hard to believe." Hawkeye sat down. "Doesn't she know that the food here is legendary? People fight to get a table here. Or fight to get out, I can never remember which." He took a forkful of something from his plate and regarded it intently.

"Don't look at it," advised Trapper. "Something might look back."

"I'll have my lunch put on a charge of reckless eyeballing." Hawkeye put the forkful of food cautiously into his mouth, chewed and reluctantly swallowed. "I think my stomach has just had an indecent act committed on it."

"Spare me the details. I already finished mine." Trapper took another swig of coffee. "Anyway, in a few hours' time you'll be dining on the finest foods that Tokyo can offer."

Hawkeye paused with his fork in mid-air; glanced sideways at his friend, then returned his gaze to his mess tray. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Try not to over-excite yourself."

"I won't."

Trapper heard the lack of enthusiasm in Hawkeye's tone. Turning his gaze onto his friend, he saw that Hawkeye wasn't looking especially happy about his imminent furlough. "What's the problem? You're about to get a holiday from this dump. You should be looking like the cat that swallowed the canary." At Hawkeye's continuing lack of positive response, Trapper added, "It's the rest of us poor slobs who've gotta stay here who ought to be dragging our tails around on the ground. You should be indecently cheery."

"I'm glad I'm getting away for a break. I'm just feeling mad as hell that you aren't, too."

"Well, don't bother. I'm mad enough for the two of us." Trapper didn't want to have this conversation. "You'll get into the party mood soon enough. Have a belt before you leave here and another couple at Kimpo, and before you know it you'll be drinking the hotel bar dry and getting thrown out of every bath house on the Ginza."

Hawkeye pushed his tray away and rested his folded arms on the table. Looking sidelong at Trapper, he said, "You know what really blows about all this?"

"I get the feeling you're going to tell me."

"Thanks to Frank and his devious little brain, we're screwed whatever we do. I go to Tokyo feeling bad because you have to stay here… And you have to stay here, enduring the usual round of hell which is OR overtime with a side-order of mud and rats. Then we swap places. Meanwhile, Frank revels in unholy glee in whatever passes for his warped little soul, because he thinks he's put one over on us."

"So here's a suggestion. Stop thinking about it." Trapper could feel the anger he'd fended off successfully since the night before beginning to bubble up to the surface. "Go to Tokyo. Have a blast. When you come back I'll do the same thing. Meantime, Frank will be so busy putting a shine on his clusters and dropping instruments in OR he won't even remember he pulled this BS on us."

"You're kidding, right?" Hawkeye sounded incredulous. "You know how Frank likes to gloat, when he thinks he's scored over someone."

Trapper shrugged. "He'll be too busy giving Hotlips physicals to waste much time gloating over us." He picked up his coffee mug and drained it, before standing up. "I gotta go. I'm still on duty in post-op."

Hawkeye looked up at his friend, his face showing surprise at their conversation being cut short. "Trap - "

"Tell me later," said Trapper, holding up a hand to forestall him. It was their usual get-out clause from any talk that carried too much burden of things unsaid. He used it now to get himself away, before the anger and the fatigue that were rolling around inside him spilled out and he said things he'd be sorry for later. "Like I said: go to Tokyo. And if it's a blessing for the journey you're looking for, you're in the wrong tent. Father Mulcahy's over that way." With that he turned on his heel and left.

Trapper was halfway across the compound before regret at what he'd said and how he'd said it caught up with him. He almost turned back; but lack of any clear idea of what he would do differently if he reopened the conversation kept him walking. Most of all, he knew that he was in no mood to offer comfort to Hawkeye. He was tired, frustrated, and smarting from the fact that he had at least a week to wait before he could escape this pesthole himself.

_And that's always assuming we don't get a flood of casualties. Because if we do, you can bet I won't be going anywhere._

Hawkeye's surprised face surfaced in his mind. That look he got when he was interrupted mid-flow, before he got a chance to unload everything he'd been stewing over. That was one of Hawkeye's safety valves, always had been: to blow off the pressure building inside by putting what he was feeling into words. Witty humour, cutting sarcasm, heated diatribes against the latest piece of military insanity he'd run up against. When Hawkeye was pissed off or hurting you knew about it. Words were Hawkeye's usual weapon and he used them in the same way he used his instruments in theatre: skilfully and to maximum effect.

Trapper was no slouch in the one-liner department himself. The double-act he and Hawkeye could put on was one of their best defences against the bad stuff that was daily fare at the 4077. But the point was, it was a double-act. Left to himself, without his partner in crime, he knew his humour would take a darker turn. And as for talking about feelings… Forget it.

He could remember the exact day he'd learned that feelings were dangerous. He'd been eight years old: eight years and three months, to be precise. In a rash moment, his parents had given in to Trapper's repeated pleadings to be allowed a dog. Probably his mother had been the chief culprit, more likely to accede to her offspring's demands than his father by reason of being more constantly subjected to them. The result had been the presentation of a terrier pup on the morning of his eighth birthday, accompanied by a warning from his father that "That mutt's your responsibility now – don't make me have to remind you."

As his father's reminders generally came with physical reinforcement, Trapper made sure that he shouldered his new responsibilities fully. The pup – which he named Bailey - was fed, walked and cleaned up after as well as played with. Things had gone well until the little terrier caught distemper, lingering distressingly for a week before expiring. Trapper had come home from school to find Bailey's corner empty, his mother's half-guilty, half-relieved explanation that "Bailey had gone to sleep" not in the least comforting.

He'd cried quite a bit. With four older brothers Trapper was used to hand-me-downs and having to share, but the pup had been the first thing that had truly belonged to him. He'd gotten pretty attached to it and the feeling of loss was intense. He was still shedding inconsolable tears when his father came home, tired and irritable after a long day's work… Which was when John MacIntyre Senior administered a curative in the form of a hard slap round the head and a terse demand that his youngest son "Quit bawling like a sissy."

Trapper had quit crying and processed the lesson: clearly, feelings were not for boys and men. Or at least, were certainly not for display or discussion. End of. It was a lesson reinforced over the years by growing up youngest in a not well-off family in a tough neighbourhood. He'd adapted, as children do. Later, when he started medical school, he even found it an advantage. He wanted nothing but to be a surgeon, from when he'd first experienced an OR. And the best surgeons seemed to be able to set emotions aside; all the better to focus, not on the person who lay under their knife, but on the body that needed fixing. Getting emotional in the OR was a hindrance.

Being human, feelings still came up. He got good at masking them with black humour, as all medical students and doctors did. Occasionally the feelings were so intense they came right to the surface, but he could count those occasions more or less on the fingers of one hand. Getting his medical degree. The first time he and Louise made love. When Becky and Kathy were born.

And then there came Korea, where every day something could hit him with that intensity, that rush of feeling that could send him to the frightening place. The place of an eight year old feeling the ringing in his head from his father's blow, of knowing that feelings were dangerous. In a place like the 4077, feelings were like haemorrhages: you could lose yourself in their release.

He'd come close. That night he'd lost his patient after the Chinese POW had run amok in the OR, spreading contamination and smashing the last bottle of AB negative blood. Trapper remembered Margaret coming into the scrub room as he prepped for opening the kid up for a third time; her telling him to wait. Looking through the door into the OR and seeing his patient lying dead on the table. Then after that, nothing. He didn't remember leaving, walking across the compound, entering the tent where the Chinese POW lay with an IV in one arm. Didn't remember what he'd said, looking down at the man who lay there staring up at him, wide-eyed with fear. There had been nothing but a blank. Until Hawkeye's voice had broken through it, saying his name.

_- Trapper? Trap?_

He'd turned around and seen the face of his friend, watching him with concern. Before Hawkeye gave him a small shake of the head.

_- That's not what we're about._

Trapper had just stood there, in a silence so deep he could hear insects chirping outside the tent, pulsing with the rhythm of the blood in his head. And then with a deep breath out, he was back. Standing there in a tent with Hawkeye watching him; bringing him back from wherever he'd gone.

He'd come back, but it had been a near thing. He still didn't know how near. How long he'd been in that blank place, that red mist or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. The place of not thinking.

Maybe the same place his father had been in when he dealt that slap.

_Like father, like son._

Trapper blinked. It took him a moment to realise that he was standing in front of the door to post-op, looking at it but not walking through. He blinked again, raising one hand to his eyes, finger and thumb rubbing his closed eyelids for a moment as if to rub away the fatigue he felt. Then he let his hand drop; opened his eyes and walked back into work.

* * *

The afternoon dragged. Trapper finished updating the stack of charts; saw to a couple of Korean civilians with minor injuries; helped Kellye run an inventory of supplies, after the previous couple of days' work in OR. He was rounding things off with a final tour of post-op to make sure all was well, when an infantryman in bed three presented him with an unwelcome surprise in the final half-hour of his shift.

"His temperature's up to one-oh-four," said Kellye quietly, passing him the soldier's chart. Trapper glanced over it – shrapnel to the belly, one of Hawkeye's patients – and passed the chart back. "You've been giving him penicillin?"

"Since yesterday evening."

Trapper examined the sweating, semi-conscious youngster with a frown. A rocketing pulse to match the fever, poor colour and falling blood pressure. When he took a peek under the dressing at Hawkeye's neatly-sutured wound, the skin was redder than it should have been, the skin swollen and angry-looking. He let out a sigh. "Looks like an infection all right." He stood up. "We better take another look under his hood. Prep him, and send someone to page Hawkeye. I'll go scrub up to assist."

He was gowning up when Radar appeared in the scrub room with a worried expression. "Uh, they said you wanted Hawkeye for something?"

"Yeah, Radar. I'm about to play bridge and I'm short of a partner." Trapper pulled on a surgeon's cap: saw the confusion on Radar's face and relented. "Tell him one of his patients has spiked a fever, needs us to go back in."

"Oh. Well, uh, he can't come. That is, he's gone. To Tokyo." Seeing the look on Trapper's face, Radar added apologetically, "A jeep and a driver came free a half hour ago, and they were both due at the 8063rd in a couple of hours, so Hawkeye had to go right there and then or else he wasn't gonna get to Kimpo today - "

"Okay, Radar. Don't worry." Trapper shook his head. "I get the picture."

"You want me to go find Major Burns to come and help you in OR?" asked Radar.

"No; this kid's in enough trouble without having Frank tripping over his innards," answered Trapper. "I'll manage solo." When Radar continued to hover undecidedly, Trapper nodded at him. "Duty calls, Radar. I've got a soldier to unzip; you better go back to the office and finish polishing Frank's desk."

"I got that done before lunch," Radar replied wearily, turning and retreating from the scrub room.

Trapper finished his preparations and headed into the OR. The kid lay on a table, ready to be anaesthetised: Trapper nodded at the nurse sitting at the gas, and got his head into where it needed to be for the surgery ahead. He pushed the conversation he'd just had with Radar way down, and looked down at the wound in front of him. "Scalpel."

It took two hours of intricate and messy work before Trapper was happy he'd dealt with the infection in the infantryman's belly. Hawkeye hadn't missed anything when he'd operated on the kid – Trapper ran the bowel twice to make sure – but belly wounds were a bitch to get properly clean, especially in the conditions they worked under here. He checked and irrigated and excised infected tissue where necessary, finally suturing the kid shut again minus another couple of inches of intestine, and with a silent prayer that this would be the last time he'd have to be opened up.

By the time he had washed up it was three hours after the end of his shift. When he wandered into post-op to take a final look at the infantryman before knocking off, Frank was patrolling the aisle with a clipboard in one hand. When he saw Trapper he demanded, "What are you doing here, MacIntyre?"

"I work here, Frank. Didn't anyone tell you?" Trapper stopped by bed three and looked the unconscious infantryman over; sat on the edge of the bed and took his pulse. It was still rapid, but not as bad.

Frank came to loiter at the end of the bed. "Your shift was over a couple of hours ago."

"Three, but who's counting." Trapper checked the chart, then stood up.

"I gather there were complications with this patient." Frank jerked his head at the still-slumbering soldier. "He was operated on by Pierce, wasn't he? What exactly was the problem?"

"Post-operative infection. He wasn't picking up after we ran some penicillin into him, so I took another look-see. He should be okay now."

Frank fussily commandeered the chart, flicked through it, then grunted. "Don't tell me our Chief Surgeon _missed_ something."

"He didn't miss a thing." Trapper wasn't going to let that one slide. "It was an abdominal shrapnel wound involving the colon, Frank. You know as well as I do that's a recipe for possible sepsis, no matter how neatly you put it back together."

Frank gave a sniff and hung the chart back on the end of the soldier's bed. "Well, we'll just have to keep an eye on him."

"You do that." Trapper turned away. "As of now, I'm officially off duty."

"You'll be taking the first shift again tomorrow," Frank informed him loudly, as Trapper walked away. "If I were you I'd get some sack time, instead of swilling back liquor till all hours."

Trapper paused in the doorway and gave him a sarcastic grin. "Lucky for me I'm not you, Frank. See you in the morning."

When Trapper reached the Swamp it was dark and quiet. He switched on the light and walked over to his bunk, trying to shrug the stiffness out of his shoulders on the way. Sitting heavily down on his cot, he looked across to Hawkeye's corner of the tent. Ample evidence of a hurried departure lay scattered about: items of discarded clothing trailed across the bed, the lid of Hawkeye's footlocker left standing open. A half-empty martini glass perched precariously on the edge of the crate that did duty as Hawkeye's nightstand. Trapper got up and retrieved the drink, pausing to push the footlocker lid shut on his way. He tilted the glass slowly, checking for drowned insect life, then gulped it down with a grimace.

He got a refill from the still then sat back down on the edge of his cot with it. He could feel the tiredness in his bones, the aches in his back and feet; but his brain was wired. Normally he would do something to mark the end of his shift, to demarcate the boundary between work and what passed for leisure here. Get down his ukulele and pick out tunes, play chequers or poker with Hawkeye, finish the half-written letter to Louise that lay beside his bed. But now in the too-quiet Swamp, he didn't feel like doing any of those things.

_Wonder if Hawk's halfway to Tokyo yet._ Trapper tried not to think about how he could've been on his way there too by now. As with anything you tried not to think about, he was dismally unsuccessful.

The glass in his hand was empty. He didn't remember drinking it. With sudden decision, he got up and headed for the door. _Hell with this. If I can't be in Tokyo at least I can be out of here._

The officers' club was busy enough to be a welcome contrast with the Swamp, while still having enough space for him to grab a seat at the bar. He was halfway through his second dirty martini and constructing an elaborate work of art from pretzels on the bar top when someone cleared their throat politely beside him.

"Hi, Radar. Pull up a stool," Trapper said, without looking round. "Or pull up a stepladder, if that works better for you."

Radar came into view with a frown of annoyance. "Gee…"

"Relax. Take a load off." Trapper gave him a lopsided smile. "You know what they say: all men are the same height when they're sitting down." He took a gulp of his martini. "Or better yet, lying down. Join me in my research project to test that theory."

"Uh, thanks." Radar rested his arms on the bar, looking like a kid being treated to his first ice cream soda. Then he looked at Trapper. "Um, Trapper?"

"Yo." Trapper was absorbed in trying to balance a particularly difficult pretzel atop his precarious masterpiece.

"How did that soldier make out? You know, Hawkeye's patient?"

"I think he'll be okay."

"I'm glad. I know Hawkeye would've wanted to have worked on him, if he'd been here."

"Yeah."

"It's just he had to go real quick, like I said, because the jeep - "

"You told me: it was on a deadline." The pretzel tower wobbled: Trapper frowned.

"Yeah, and so Hawkeye only had a few minutes to get his stuff together before he had to go, so he didn't have time to come and find you before he left…"

"Right." Trapper had a feeling that even if Hawkeye hadn't been in a time crunch, he still might have not sought his friend out. _Not after what I said to him in the mess tent._

"But he saw me by the jeep and he asked me to tell you something." Radar sounded a little nervous. "Well, actually he asked me to give you something."

The pretzels collapsed in an untidy pile. Trapper regarded them with a jaundiced eye, then turned to the young corporal at his side. "So, lay it on me."

"Uh. Okay." Radar rummaged in his shirt pocket; looked panicked, then rummaged in the other pocket. That too proving fruitless, he ransacked his uniform until he finally found what he'd been looking for: a crumpled ten-dollar bill. Relief adorning his features, he held it up.

"Hawkeye told you to give me that?" Trapper looked at it sceptically, then at Radar. "I hate to break it to you, Radar, but I already owe him fifty dollars in poker debts."

"No – that's not why he gave it to me!" Radar looked around for the barkeeper, finally attracting his attention by gesturing with the ten-dollar bill like a semaphore flag. When the man nodded and approached, Radar said in explanatory tones, "Hawkeye gave me this and told me to buy you and me a drink with it. Well, uh, actually I think he said several drinks. He said to tell you to have a drink and make a toast to him in Tokyo: and that he'll be sitting in a bar in Tokyo raising a toast to you, right at the same time." Radar paused, a nervous half-smile coming onto his face as he watched for Trapper's reaction. "Oh – and he said to tell you, he hopes the days go as quick for you here, as they will for him."

Trapper stared at him. Then found a slow smile coming onto his face. Radar looked relieved. "Hope I remembered what he said all right."

"Sounded about right to me," Trapper acknowledged. "C'mon then, Radar – let's have those drinks."

"Okay. I'll have a beer." Radar let out his high-pitched chuckle. "What the heck. I'm not on duty again till I gotta wake Major Burns at oh-five-hundred tomorrow."

Trapper laid his arm across Radar's shoulders. "Have a couple of beers, and Ferret Face can haul his own tuckus out of his bed tomorrow morning. Or out of Hotlips' bed, more likely." He nodded at the barkeep. "Another dirty martini, and a beer for my friend here. And keep 'em comin'." He nodded at Radar, who pushed the ten-dollar bill across the bar. When they both had their drinks, Trapper raised his into the air and waited for Radar to do the same. Then he lightly tapped his glass rim to Radar's beercan. "A toast, to my good friend Hawkeye. May his R and R be everything he hoped it would be, and his hangover less than it ought to be. And I hope there's still some of Tokyo left for me, when he's finished with it."

They drank. Trapper closed his eyes, just for half a minute. The taste of real gin and vermouth in his mouth, the music from the jukebox, the background chatter of people in the bar around him… If he let his brain go out of focus ever so slightly, he could almost imagine himself there in Tokyo. Sitting at some bar with Hawkeye sitting next to him.

When he opened his eyes, Radar was watching him curiously. "You okay, Trapper?"

"Sure." Trapper felt the 4077 come back. He gave Radar a slow nod. "Couldn't be better."

Trapper wasn't sure at what time he and Radar had stumbled out of the officers' club. He dimly recalled the two of them lurching through the camp, then himself waving Radar goodbye at the door of the Swamp. Once inside he walked into the stove, a footlocker and finally fell over his cot in the dark, before crawling on top of it and passing out.

* * *

Dawn came painfully, the sound of reveille penetrating Trapper's aching head. Groaning, he propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at the faint light penetrating the canvas. The hesitant sounds of a maltreated bugle continued.

"Ffff…" Trapper managed to get himself sitting up, and stared at his boots. They stared back, blatantly refusing to walk over and tie themselves onto his feet. He was forced to bend down and put them on, which movement seemed to roll most of his brain forwards like a bowling ball to knock against his skull. He groaned again, holding his head before standing up and shambling to the door of the Swamp.

It was another beautiful morning, not that Trapper could have cared less. He inserted himself into the back row of the assembled company and looked to where Radar was finishing his bugling. The young corporal looked somewhat worse for wear himself: Trapper reflected that however bad he felt himself, at least he didn't have to a blow a bugle. Radar manfully persisted to the bitter end, although his face had taken on a tinge that matched his uniform. After he lowered the bugle, Trapper saw him shut his eyes for a moment. Mentally Trapper saluted him. _Bravery beyond the call of duty._

Frank and Margaret took up station in front of the ranks. Trapper tuned them out and let his half-closed eyes wander up to the pale blue sky. If he didn't move his head, he almost didn't feel terrible.

Passing the morning parade in this state of semi-suspended animation proved surprisingly effective: before he knew it, they were being dismissed. Trapper headed straight for the showers, where he tried to sluice the worst of his headache away before subjecting himself to breakfast in the mess tent. By the time he'd downed his fifth cup of coffee he was feeling almost human again. At least, human enough to report for duty.

Frank greeted him in post-op with a disparaging look. "Well. So much for doctors setting an example. Not exactly a healthy mind in a healthy body, are we?"

Trapper pursed his lips. "You tell me, Frank. My mind's pretty healthy, all things considered. And if it's a healthy body you're looking for, I would've thought Hotlips qualified."

Frank bristled; glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot, then glared at him. "I'll thank you to keep your insinuations to yourself, MacIntyre!"

"Sure. I'll mind my insinuations if you mind yours." Trapper looked across the room. "How's the kid in bed three doing?"

"He's comfortable," Frank admitted reluctantly.

"In this place? He must be sicker than I thought." Trapper crossed to the young infantryman's bed and pulled his chart: looked through it, then smiled down at the soldier. "Hi there. I'm Dr MacIntyre. I put you in for another oil change yesterday. How're you feeling?"

The youngster smiled a little. "Not so bad… thanks, doc. Feel kinda… out of it, though."

"Yeah, you will do for a little while yet." Trapper sat on the edge of the bed and checked the soldier's pulse; noted how the feverish heat had gone from his skin. "You got much pain?"

The young man took on an expression of determined fortitude. "It ain't much… I can handle it."

"Glad to hear it. But the good news is, you don't have to handle it. We can give you something that'll take the edge off." Trapper smiled at him. "Special offer for everyone passing through here: you get the deluxe package, all surgery and drugs included, no extra charge." He stood up again. "Just take things easy for a while. Kick back, read a magazine; enjoy the atmosphere. You'll be here for few more days. We want to make sure you're running on all cylinders before we send you on your way."

"Okay." The youngster smiled again. "I guess… I'm not in any hurry."

"That's the right attitude." Trapper smiled back at him, before walking away.

Frank caught up with him by the desk. "I told you he was all right."

"Your diagnostic powers are at their height, Frank." Trapper sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. "Okay. Here I am, reporting for duty. Anything good happen while I was gone?"

Frank pursed his lips and let out a short snort, before shaking his head. "Everything's A-OK in here. I've completed a morning round of the wounded. The nurses have their orders."

"Lucky nurses." Trapper glanced around post-op, then looked back at his colleague. "All right, Frank. I'm up to bat. See you later."

Frank gave him a narrow-eyed look, before beating a retreat. When he was gone Trapper pulled out the chair and sat at the desk. He looked at the pile of charts that had been dumped there… Before letting out a sigh and reaching for the top one.

* * *

As sometimes happened after an influx of wounded, the Korean war took a short pause for a while. No flood of fresh casualties arrived; the ones in post-op thinned out as they recovered enough either to be returned to duty or evacced out to Seoul. The 4077 returned to the alternate of its two basic states: tedium.

Trapper was savvy enough not to wish for excitement, even after he'd recovered from the hangover brought on by his and Radar's binge in the officers' club. Excitement here generally came with express delivery of wounded by chopper and ambulance, in glorious technicolour. The daily round of post-op duty and paperwork was mundane but it had the decided advantage of being largely death-free, apart from the brain cells he was probably murdering when he switched himself off with a nightcap from the still each evening.

The only downside was that when life at the 4077 was slow, the days didn't exactly fly by. At the end of his shifts Trapper found himself unable to tolerate the silent Swamp, and longed for some company. He tried cornering Bigelow in the supply room but she evaded him with practiced skill, dodging around some shelves and succeeding in reaching the door. "Not today, thanks, Trapper."

"What's the matter – you got a headache?" Trapper tried his most winning smile. "You should get a doctor to look at that. And it just so happens I have a free appointment." He reached for her again.

Bigelow fended him off with a wry smile. "I don't. I'm on duty in twenty minutes, and if I'm late Major Houlihan will have my hide."

"We could fit a lot into twenty minutes," Trapper suggested.

Bigelow gave a shake of her head. "You sure do know how to charm a girl. 'Bye." And she backed out of the door and was gone.

Trapper leaned against the shelves behind him and let out a sigh. _Must be losing my touch._ He considered his options: another session in the officers' mess (always assuming the barman would let him run up a tab); Father Mulcahy's bingo evening in the mess tent; or going back to the Swamp and turning in early.

_What the hell. At least when I'm asleep I won't be thinking about this place._ He shouldered his way through the supply room door and headed to his bunk.

* * *

The next day followed the pattern of the two before it: no fresh casualties apart from the minor everyday injuries that even peacetime in the army seemed to produce. Trapper treated a scalded hand belonging to a guy doing KP, a sprained ankle on a nurse who'd fallen in the showers, and patched up a couple of corporals who'd gotten into a punch-up over a disagreement about who was first in the lunch queue. Post-op proved similarly quiet and for once Trapper was able to finish his shift on time. When he stepped outside it was still sunny and he stood for a moment soaking it up before crossing the compound to the Swamp.

Inside the tent felt drab and silent. He looked around it slowly. _Home sweet home._ His gaze fell on the folding chair shoved to one side of his cot, and one corner of his mouth lifted.

Two minutes later he was sitting outside in the late afternoon sun, straw hat on his head, drink beside him, ukulele in his hands. It felt strange to be sitting out there alone, but the strangeness started to wear off a little as the minutes passed by. A few people strolled past and nodded hello; Trapper nodded back, took a sip of his drink and carried on picking at the strings of his uke. When he'd finished his drink he got a refill, but returned to sit outside; picked up his ukulele again and played, watching camp life go by.

Margaret came into view, striding across the compound purposefully. Trapper watched her progress with a slight smile, appreciating the way she moved. He and Hawkeye had wondered endlessly what Margaret saw in Frank, speculating that unlikely as it seemed there must be some kind of real spark going on between the sheets. Trapper found it easy to believe that Margaret could catch fire – that time she'd got drunk and wrapped herself around him had revealed a passionate woman under the army brass exterior – but the closest he'd ever got to warming himself at that particular fire was their little enforced stay in the supply shed. And even that had been a bust.

Margaret was evidently on her way to the showers, carrying a towel and dressing gown and looking like her mind was half elsewhere. Imagining a night of playing doctors and nurses with Frank, no doubt. Trapper grinned and began playing and whistling a lively rendition of _Ain't She Sweet_ as Margaret drew level. She appeared not to notice at first; then checked her stride, looked round and saw him grinning at her. Coming to a halt in front of him, she narrowed her eyes. "I heard that!"

"You were meant to." Trapper played the last chord with a flourish, then set down his ukulele and picked up his glass. "Care to join me in a cocktail, Margaret?"

"No thank you." Margaret gave a decided lift to her chin. "It's a little too early in the day to start drinking."

Trapper looked towards the west. "I'd say it's pretty much a sundowner. Or it will be soon. Anyway, you're off duty now, aren't you?"

"I am. But I'm on my way to the showers. And then I'm meeting Major Burns in the officers' club." Margaret seemed to doubt suddenly that this was the discreet thing to have said, and glared at Trapper. "To discuss – camp morale!"

"You're both leading by example," said Trapper, nodding seriously. "You and Frank must be overflowing with good morale, the number of discussions the two of you have been having."

"You keep your dirty thoughts to yourself!" hissed Margaret, swinging her towel off her shoulder and taking a step towards him as if she was going to swat him with it. "What Major Burns and I talk about is nobody else's business!"

"Easy, Margaret – no-one round here cares about what folks get up to in the privacy of their tents." Trapper gave her a truce-making smile. "Life here's tough enough. What I say is, whatever gets you through the night. Y'know?"

Margaret regarded him suspiciously; then settled her towel back over her shoulder with military bearing. "I'm sure I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about."

Trapper thought back to their sojourn in the supply room. _Yeah, right._

A cough made them both turn: Radar had appeared in his usual low-key fashion, and now stood a couple of paces away, holding his ever-present clipboard. He glanced warily at Margaret before addressing Trapper. "Uh, sir? There's some good news."

"Be still my beating heart." Trapper took a swig of his drink and leaned back in his chair. "Don't tell me, someone shot the cook."

"No, sir." Radar gave a nervous smile.

"Then I'm already disappointed. Unless you've come to tell us MacArthur's kissed and made up with Kim Il Sung and we can all go home."

"Oh, _really_ - " Margaret angrily tossed her head.

"Well, not everyone, sir." Radar smiled wider. "But you can."

Trapper gave a half-shake of his head, grinning at Margaret's irritation. "I think some of you got lost in translation, Radar. I thought I heard you say I can go home."

"That's right, sir." Radar took a folded sheet of paper from his clipboard and held it out, smiling so much he looked like a different person. "You got all your points - your discharge came through. You're going home."

Trapper stared at the paper Radar was holding out to him, then at the young corporal. Slowly he reached out and took the sheet of paper and read what was written there. Then read it again. He slowly let his hand drop. "I'm… going home." He looked at Radar, then at Margaret. "I'm going home! Hey, hey! I'm going home!" He found himself wrapping his arms first around Radar – who blushed like a guilty schoolboy – and then around Margaret. Who, after an initial astonished pause, responded with a spontaneous hug in return. "Trapper – that's such wonderful news." A genuine smile transformed her face. "I'm so pleased for you."

"Me too, sir." Radar was also smiling, albeit from a cautious distance. "As soon as I got the message I brought it straight over."

Trapper, one arm still around Margaret's shoulders, gave Radar a grin. "I can hardly believe it." He brought the piece of paper up and read it again. "But there it is, in black and white. I'm out." He felt a wild joy surging up in him, filling him with a rush. "Holy cow, I'm out of here. I'm going home!" This time he turned and kissed Margaret full on the lips, drawing her in for a full body hug. He felt her stiffen for a moment – then soften into it.

"MacIntyre!" A familiar outraged voice cut into the celebration. Trapper withdrew from Margaret, leaving her with a slightly thoughtful smile on her face, and turned to face in the direction of the shout. "Hi, Frank."

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Frank looked from Trapper to Margaret, who belatedly lost her smile and gave an instinctive tug to the front of her uniform to straighten it out. Trapper grinned at Frank. "Margaret was just congratulating me on my good news. I've got my discharge from the army: I'm going home."

Frank looked stymied by the news. Trapper could almost see the cogs working in his brain: uncertain whether it was something he too should celebrate, or find fault with. Being Frank, he settled for the latter. Turning to Radar, he said in authoritarian tones, "And why, corporal, didn't I receive this information first, as commanding officer?"

"I was coming to tell you, sir," responded Radar with a resigned look. "Only I came across Captain MacIntyre on the way so I thought I might as well tell him - "

"Since when has his tent been on the way between your desk and my office?" demanded Frank.

Trapper decided to interrupt this particular diatribe. "Lay off, Frank. What does it matter who found out first?" He held out the piece of paper with his discharge orders on it. "Here's the army paperwork. Knock yourself out."

Frank snatched the sheet of paper and ran his gaze over it, eyes narrowed. After a few moments, he looked back up at Trapper. "Well… It all seems to be in order."

"You should get a flight from Kimpo and a connecting flight stateside by the end of the week," said Radar. "I'll get on to it right away."

"Just a minute, corporal!" said Frank. "Before you start making MacIntyre's travel plans, I want you to find out if a replacement surgeon has been arranged for the 4077. And if so, who that will be and when they will be arriving here. We're already two surgeons down, with Pierce away in Tokyo – I'm not letting you leave, MacIntyre, until I know we can cover your absence."

"You think you can stop me from leaving, Frank?" Trapper stepped in close to him. "I'd like to see you try it."

"Listen, buster - "

"Uh, sirs - " Radar tried to interpose between the two men. "That is, Major Burns, sir," he added hurriedly, as Frank glared at him. "Headquarters have already notified us that a replacement surgeon for Captain MacIntyre is being sent out here right away. I can request his personnel file for you."

"I want it on my desk before the end of the week," snapped Frank.

"Yessir." Radar smiled reassuringly.

"See, Frank? You'll have a nice new surgeon to play with, before you know it." Trapper moved back to pick up his chair and ukulele, before turning in the direction of the Swamp.

"There's paperwork you'll need to complete," Frank said petulantly. "You may be leaving, but there's still army regulations to follow before you go."

"Swell." Trapper gave him a sidelong grin. "I'll get right onto it, Frank. As soon as I've drunk the bar dry in the officers' club."

It was no idle threat: after dumping ukulele and chair in the Swamp, Trapper lost no time before heading over to the OC and proclaiming his escape to all and sundry. Good news was a scarce enough commodity at the 4077 that it soon got around, and before too long it seemed as though every person who wasn't currently on duty was jammed into the officers' club, joining Trapper in celebratory drinks.

As the night wore on, the procession of handshakes and hugs and inebriated good wishes began to blur more than a little. Trapper lost track of how many drinks he'd downed: a row of glasses always seemed to be lined up on the table by his elbow, magically refilling themselves whenever he drained them. At first the alcohol boosted his happiness into elation; then laced it with sentimentality; and finally clouded it over with a hazy sense of floating somewhere just below the ceiling in the over-warm room of drunk, happy, shouting people. Music blared from the jukebox; singing was being perpetuated, although not the same song; people were still periodically slapping him on the back or kissing him; and Trapper lifted the next drink in line and tipped it into his mouth without tasting it.

Only certain people swam up through the haze to register more than dimly: Klinger, looking swarthily stunning in a green silk evening gown, giving him fervent and envious congratulations; Father Mulcahy, knocked a little askew in the crowd but smiling warmly with sincere good will; Radar toasting him shyly with a beer and asking him if he could maybe find time to call in at Ottumwa, Iowa and say Hi to his mom. A few people jokingly asking, Was he sure this time he was really going home, because the last farewell party had been a false alarm? And more drinks lining up, close to his hand.

Trapper didn't remember when the party had ended, or even if it had ended. At one point he got up to dance with Bigelow, only to find himself lying flat on his back on the floor, laughing. Bigelow bent over him and said, "That was some dip you did there."

"Come down here and I'll show you how it's done," he answered. She smiled down at him; he closed his eyes for a moment, smiling too. When he opened them again he was sitting propped at a table next to Radar, and the room was slanting gently downhill. He blinked and tried to straighten it by tilting his head, but it didn't seem to help much. Beside him Radar reached for his beer once, twice; snagged it on the third go and brought it determinedly up in a wobbly arc to his mouth.

"Easy there, Radar…" Trapper managed to form the words, although they didn't come out as distinctly as he'd hoped. "Y'don't want to… overdo it."

"Nosiree…" Radar gave a sturdy shake of his head, then blinked. "S'only my sixith. Thh. Thh." The last syllable appeared to be giving him trouble: he repeated it sotto voce, apparently trying to perfect it.

"That's alright then." Trapper regarded the selection of glasses littering the table in front of him. "This is my…" The numbers eluded him, and he frowned. "…Next drink." He chose a glass at random and slugged it back. There seemed to be no taste any more, just the sensation of liquid trickling down his throat. "Cheers," he stated, to the slanting room.

"C'ngrachulaysh'ns, shir," Radar responded, lifting his beercan again.

The room was still askew. Trapper decided to close his eyes, in the hopes that when he opened them again the world would have restored itself to its proper level. His arm rested heavily on the tabletop: peacefully, he let his head nestle onto it. He was floating in a warm sea of liquor, and the party sounds around him became the sounds of the ocean, lulling him to sleep.

* * *

A knocking penetrated his slumbers. It was close, and insistent, and kept on happening. Trapper was so far down it took him a long while to surface: for some time he stayed in a halfway place where he could hear the knocking, but didn't let it drag him out of the warm dark place he was in.

The knocking was joined by an accompanying voice, calling his name. This was harder to ignore, though he tried. The comfortable darkness began to disperse as he drifted upwards, summoned like a reluctant spirit from the netherworld.

_Knock, knock, knock._ "Trapper? Trap?"

The last shreds of unconsciousness were thinning now. Trapper felt the world returning, and with it a hangover that rode into his brain like a pack of Valkyries.

A door creaked open. "Trapper?"

Trapper breathed in slowly, feeling the tide of nausea sweep over him in symphony with the pain clamping around his head. A footstep beside his bed made him open his eyes, to see Radar peering worriedly down at him. "Uh, you okay, sir?"

Trapper shut his eyes for a moment. "Radar. Don't speak so loud."

"Sorry, sir." Radar dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Uh, I hate to disturb you, sir. But, uh, Major Burns said to come tell you you're on duty in half an hour."

"Tell him I died."

"I don't think he'll believe me."

"I'm a qualified physician. I know what being dead feels like." Trapper pulled his blanket up over his face.

"Sir, if I don't go back and tell Major Burns you're reporting for duty soon, he says he'll come over here and fetch you himself."

"The hell he will." Trapper reluctantly lowered his blanket and peered at Radar with aching eyes. "If Frank comes in here and starts shouting, the top of my head will fall off." He took a deep breath, then managed to sit up and swing his legs out of his cot. "Ohh…"

"Okay." Radar hovered nearby. "I'll tell Major Burns you're on your way. You want me to bring you some coffee from the mess tent?"

"Yeah. First I'll just go and throw up whatever it was I drank last night." Trapper got unsteadily to his feet.

Getting through his work day took almost more fortitude than Trapper possessed. The hangover crouched in his head and stomach like a malevolent goblin, refusing to be dislodged by any means. Trapper commandeered Radar to bring him a steady supply of coffee, supplemented by what the army called orange juice. By the end of his shift the pain had diminished to manageable levels, but it still took an effort to enter the mess tent as suppertime arrived.

As he paused just inside the doorway, a gradual ripple of applause greeted his entrance, accompanied by a few cheers and not a little laughter. Trapper acknowledged his reception with a gracious wave, before heading to take a place in the chow line.

"What'll you have, doc?" Igor smiled cheerily at him.

"Something soothing," Trapper answered. "Nothing in loud colours. Preferably something I can swallow without having to look at it first."

Once he'd got his food, Trapper headed for the table nearest the door, just in case his hangover made a speedy visit to the latrine advisable. Radar was already there, working his way through a laden supper tray. Unfortunately, so were Margaret and Frank. Trapper sat down, giving a nod of general greeting.

"Well, if it isn't Dr Jekyl. Or should that be Mr Hyde?" Frank's tone was sarcastic. "I'm surprised you've got the nerve to show your face in here, after last night."

Trapper regarded him levelly. "Last night? Frank, last night I had so much to drink that today I barely remember how to sign my own name. But if I did something that offended you, please remind me what it was." He let a beat fall. "Then I can appreciate it all over again."

Frank scowled. "You're telling me that you don't remember the – cockamamie stunt you pulled right here in the mess tent, at midnight?"

Trapper was genuinely puzzled. He cast his mind back, groping for memories of the night before, but came up with nothing except a hazy memory of lying on a floor somewhere laughing. "The plot thickens. You want to let me in on it?"

Frank leaned across the table. "I guess you think that kind of – med student chicanery is just one big hoot! But I'm telling you, mister, you're a disgrace to the US army uniform!"

"Just as well that I'm going to be taking it off pretty soon, then," Trapper replied.

Radar let out an involuntary chuckle, causing Frank to glare at him. Glancing apologetically at the major, Radar spoke out of the corner of his mouth nearest to Trapper. "Actually, sir, you kind of took it off already. Last night. _All_ of it."

"Huh?" Trapper looked at him quizzically.

"What the corporal here is trying to tell you, MacIntyre," butted in Frank, "is that last night, when you were _inebriated_, you were in this mess tent in – _a state of undress_."

"I was?" Trapper began to grin. "That explains the reception I got when I walked in here just now."

"It was disgusting!" interjected Margaret.

Trapper turned his grin onto her. "So you got a good look, Margaret?"

Margaret pinked up; her lips moved soundlessly as she appeared to be searching for words; then she got up from the table. "I don't have to listen to these kind of dirty-minded insinuations. What I witnessed in here last night was the most disgraceful exhibition. I've never seen anything like it!"

"You hear that, Frank?" Trapper let his grin spread a little wider. "Sounds like you've got some ground to make up."

With a gasp of outrage, Margaret gave him a look before exiting the mess tent. Frank too got to his feet, fixing Trapper with a glare. "You're nothing but a degenerate, MacIntyre! The army's well rid of you. The sooner you're out of here, the better for all of us!" With that, he turned and stormed out of the tent in Margaret's wake.

Trapper let out a chuckle, before turning his attention back to Radar. With the two majors gone, the young man gave vent to his feelings in a fit of giggles – which combined with his mouthful of food to produce a fit of choking. Trapper slapped him between the shoulder blades. "Easy, Radar. The food in here's bad enough if you swallow it, you don't want to inhale it as well."

Radar hiccoughed and swallowed, turned varying shades of pink, and finally got his breath back. "Thanks – Trap."

"No problem. Just don't make me have to carry out the Heimlich manoeuvre on you, I'm not sure I'm up to it right now." Trapper passed him the water jug. "Here, have a drink. Slowly. Then you can tell me all about my cabaret act in here last night."

Radar gulped water, breathed, then set his mug down. "You really don't remember?"

"I'm beginning to wish that I did. But no, I don't remember. Nothing specific: just going to the officers' club and telling everyone the glad tidings. And people plying me with booze."

"Oh, well, that definitely happened. For a few hours. Then round about midnight, the party kind of got kicked out of the officers' club and wound up in here… And you said you wanted to give the nurses something to remember you by, and one of them said how about a strip tease; and then you said no problem, and the next thing we knew you were running round the camp in the… altogether."

"Naked?" Trapper wondered how cold it had been.

"As a jaybird." Radar blushed. "Uh, although you did keep your boots on."

Trapper had a sudden vivid memory: not of himself last night, but of Hawkeye months ago, parading naked through the mess tent except for his cap, boots and dogtags. He smiled. "Uh huh. And then what did I do?"

"After a while you fell over. And then some of the guys took you back to the Swamp." Radar shrugged. "I think you might have come back at one point, but I can't really remember because the nurses put some whiskey in my beer. I woke up under a table first thing this morning with Major Burns yelling at me." He winced at the memory.

"Sounds like a night to remember. Makes me wish I could." Trapper picked up a forkful of food, eyed it, and put it down again. "But not half so much as I wish this hangover would go away."

Radar observed him solicitously. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No. This is definitely a case of _Physician, heal thyself_." Trapper reached for his mug of coffee. "But thanks anyway."

"No problem." Radar returned to finishing his own tray of food. Somewhat indistinctly between mouthfuls, he said, "I guess you'll want me to get on to placing a call to Boston right away. I should be able to get you a line sometime tonight, which'll make it sometime this morning over there."

"Boston?" Trapper felt his hungover brain slowly catching up. "Boston - Jesus! Yeah, Radar – soon as you can manage it." He thought of Louise, of hearing her voice on the phone. Of breaking the news to her. Of speaking to his two girls.

"Sure, sir." Radar was grinning. "And I got you your travel orders, too. You're due to fly out of Kimpo in three days' time, first transport plane in the morning. You should be back in the States by Sunday."

"Radar, you're a prince." Trapper met his grin with one of his own. "Take the rest of the war off."

* * *

Radar was as good as his word. Late that evening, Trapper sat impatiently at the young corporal's desk as Radar negotiated his way through the army communications bureaucracy to secure a phone connection to the States. It took a predictably long time: almost an hour of finagling and being passed from operator to operator before Radar sat back with a pleased look and one hand over the mouthpiece. "They're patching it through to your home number now, Trapper." He listened for a second, then gave an excited thumbs up. "It's ringing!"

Trapper took the phone and brought it to his ear, heard the sound of the ringing tone. Heard in his own mind the sound of the phone ringing in their hallway in Boston. It was as if he was reaching out and touching it with his hand, all the way from Korea.

A click. "Hello, Richmond 6-3002."

Trapper felt a night-before-Christmas feeling kick in, somewhere around his heart. "Hi, honey. It's me, John."

"John?" Louise's voice switched from everyday to astonished, instantly. "Oh my God – John? Is that really you?"

A movement caught Trapper's eye: Radar, holding up a notepad on which he'd scrawled the words _TWO MINUTES_. Trapper nodded, then shut his eyes. "It's really me."

"Oh my God." Trapper could hear breathy sounds. "Honey, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. And I'm going to be better. Listen, sweetheart: I've got my discharge. The army's sending me home."

"You're - " There were more sounds: laughing, or crying, or both. "You're coming _home?_"

"End of the week. Got my plane ticket booked and all."

"Oh my God." Then a definite laugh. With crying mixed in. "Give me a minute, and I'll think of something else to say. Oh, _John_."

"Are the girls there?"

"No, it's late morning here, they're both in school. But I'll tell them when they get home. They'll be so excited."

"Give them a hug from me."

"I will. Oh, they'll be so sorry they missed your call. But I can't wait to tell them!"

"I can't wait to see them. You too, honey."

"You're sure they're really letting you come home?"

"Got it in writing. On army-headed paper."

"I can't believe it. Oh my gosh, wait till I tell everyone. We'll have the biggest party to celebrate, when you get here."

A tug on his sleeve: Trapper opened his eyes, to see Radar pointing at his watch. He nodded. "That sounds great. Listen, sweetheart, I think we're gonna lose this connection soon. I just wanted to tell you the good news."

"When do you fly back in to Boston? Do you know what time you get here?"

"Not exactly. Sometime on Sunday, I hope. I'll call you again once I'm on the way home, maybe from Hawaii."

"I can't wait to see you."

"Me either. You and the girls."

"I love you. Call me when you - "

The phone at his ear went dead, then cut to the sound of long distance static. Trapper said, "I love you too, honey." Then he slowly lowered the receiver.

There was a silence. At last Radar said quietly, "That's it, Trapper."

"Yeah." Trapper let him take the receiver, and slowly sat back in the chair. Radar gave him a moment, before saying, "I'll bet she was real happy to hear your news."

"Yeah. She was." Trapper nodded. "Can't wait to see me."

"Wow." Radar looked overcome. "It's real nice, you going home and all. Next to going back home my own self, I think it's got to be one of the nicest things that could happen here."

Trapper smiled at him. "Thanks, Radar."

"Hawkeye's gonna be real sorry to have missed your going away party."

"I'll throw another one with him as a special guest, before I go." Trapper grinned. "Maybe we can get naked in the mess tent as a double act this time."

"But he won't be back before you leave," Radar stated mournfully. "And I just know he'll be awful sorry to have not - "

"Huh?" Trapper found himself pulled out reveries of his imagined reunion with Louise, by the sudden clarity of unwelcome news. "What're talking about, Radar?"

"You fly out of Kimpo the same day Hawkeye's due back from leave," Radar explained carefully. "See, you'll be going out on that first morning flight, and Hawkeye most likely won't get back here from Tokyo till sometime later on - "

"Hell with that." Trapper sat upright in his chair. "Switch my flight. Get me one leaving in the evening."

"Uh, I can't do that, Trapper." Radar looked panicked. "I had to pull all kinds of favours to get you on that one. If you don't take that flight, it'll be sometime early next week before there's another one heading stateside I can get you a seat on."

Trapper thought of Louise, waiting eagerly in Boston: of himself making another call to her, telling her he was going to be a few days later getting home than planned. _Yeah, right._ He knew with sudden complete certainty that there wasn't a thing on this earth that would get him to stay in Korea a minute longer than he had to. Never mind several days longer.

"Okay." He got up, shaking his head. "Then I need you to place another call for me."

"Sure, Trapper." Radar sat at his desk, looking relieved. "Where to?"

"Tokyo. Get hold of Hawkeye."

"Uh, okay." Radar looked less relieved. "That could take a while. Last time I tried to reach Hawkeye when he was on R and R he wasn't staying at the place that he told us he would be staying at the place of."

"I can give you the names of some hangouts to try." Trapper spoke decisively. "I don't care if you wind up calling half the geishas in Tokyo, I need you to track him down. There's no way I'm leaving here without getting to talk to him."

"I'll do my best." Radar nodded. "If you want to write those names down, I'll get onto it. When I get ahold of him - "

"Come and find me," Trapper instructed. "Whatever I'm doing. Wake me up if you have to."

"Okay, Trapper." Radar picked up his headset with a resolute look. Trapper nodded at him, before heading out of the office into the night.

When he got to the Swamp, he sat down on his cot and stared at his photo of his family for a while. There was a strange sensation in his chest, a queasy cocktail of happiness and anxiety. Hearing Louise on the phone, having that two-minute connection to life back in the States, was like being woken from a dream. Or from the nightmare that had been his life here, in Korea. Except now he was sitting back here, on his cot, it was Louise and the girls and his life in Boston that seemed like the dream. In three days' time he would be getting on a plane and leaving this country for good. Flying out over the Sea of Japan –

The anxiety in his chest tightened. Hawkeye's words from a few days ago replayed in his mind.

_- Henry got his orders to go home, and where did he wind up? Falling in a hundred pieces into the Sea of Japan, before he ever got a chance to see his wife and kids again._

Trapper reached out and picked up the photo of family: held it in his lap, gazing at it. _That's not going to happen to me. I'm going home. I've survived this place. I've survived snipers, shelling, amateur bomb disposal, going for a walk in a minefield, and so much meatball surgery that I see wounded soldiers in my sleep. I've survived all that, and I'm going to go home to my family. I got through it, somehow._

His gaze lifted to the empty cot a little way from his own; he swallowed. _Somehow… And the guy who's the reason I got through it all, is six hundred miles away right now._

Carefully, he set the photo back on the crate by his cot: lay back with his arms folded under his head and stared at the ceiling. It was a view he'd looked at a thousand times. Waking to it at the start of yet another dreary shift in post op; dragged out of sleep by the sound of choppers, to stare at it wide-eyed; watching it drift out of focus after hours of surgery, eyes blurry with bathtub gin and fatigue. It would have been all too easy to pass too much time here staring at the stains on the canvas, without the countless ways he and Hawkeye had found to divert themselves from the hellish mix of boredom and horror-show that this place offered.

He thought of Radar in the office, pestering Tokyo hotel clerks and bartenders until he tracked Hawkeye down. Which he would do. Radar always found a way to locate what you needed, even if it took him a while. And Trapper needed him to locate Hawkeye, because in three days' time he'd be getting into a jeep and leaving this place behind him, and Hawkeye would be staying in Korea. Which was all kinds of unthinkable. Trapper wanted to go home, he wanted it so bad that three days felt like an eternity between him and the rest of his life, his family, his wife. But at the same time, it felt like just three days; three days before Korea, the 4077, the people here, were memories falling far behind him. And one of those people was Hawkeye.

A memory surfaced, as he gazed up at the stained canvas ceiling: of the time a few months back, when he'd had the stomach ulcer. When they'd all thought for a while that it was going to be his ticket home. Sitting here in the Swamp, going through his belongings deciding what to pack; he and Hawkeye talking, joking, keeping up the old double act. Skating around the whole _this-is-goodbye_ thing. Until the moment Hawkeye looked at him with eyes that revealed the pain of the man left behind.

_- Thanks, Trap._

_- What?_

_- You made it bearable. I was lucky. You were honest. And open. You let me lean on you._

Trapper had felt the pain too, and with it that same old fear. The dangerousness of opening up, of going to the feeling place. Of losing himself. So although his own eyes had filled with water and his throat had gone tight, he had managed to smile. And replied with something he'd meant to sound like a doctor's joke.

_- No charge. If I'm ever back this way…_

_- I'll keep a light burning for you in a bedpan. _And Hawkeye had smiled too. But the pain had still been there.

Trapper let out a long breath. _And this time I'm really going. No last-minute change of plans, like before. I'm really going. _He tried to picture it: himself flying back to Boston, Hawkeye remaining at the 4077, sharing the Swamp with whoever the new surgeon was going to be. Continuing the daily round of surgery and boredom with Frank as CO, drinking gin from the still and chasing nurses and doing God knows what else, anything that he could shove between himself and the war. Trapper tried to picture Hawkeye doing just fine, rolling with the punches that this place dished out, but his imagination failed him.

The truth was, Trapper wasn't sure how Hawkeye was going to make it through this war. He was a fine surgeon, true enough: but that had major drawbacks in a place like this. Hawkeye didn't belong in a war zone. He was skilful and principled and compassionate and too smart for his own damn good, because when all was said and done, the people who got through wars best were the ones who didn't think too much. Or feel too much. And Hawkeye failed on both counts. Even when he did his best to blunt his own edges with alcohol, or by working or playing harder than anyone else.

Trapper could still remember the time Hawkeye had stayed awake for several days, eventually turning up for surgery so dead on his feet that Henry yelled at him to stand down. It still took enough sedative to fell a horse for them to knock him out… And even then, he talked in his sleep. Or there was the time Hawkeye caused a near-riot in the mess tent over army food, and ordered take-out ribs from Chicago. Or when he punched Frank flat in the scrub room, after being swatted by him with a towel.

This last memory caused Trapper to smile wryly. He would probably have decked Frank himself, if it had been him. But that didn't alter the basic fact: Hawkeye went through life set on high-gain. And Korea was a place that offered up plenty of experiences that could tweak your head, in ways that were difficult to fix. He'd learned enough from his occasional conversations with Sidney Freedman to know that this war was producing a steady crop of men who would get medical discharges and return home, but would probably never return to themselves.

_But hey, newsflash: Hawkeye's a grown man. You're not responsible for him. You got to be friends, you got close, but that's all. You're going back to Boston, to get on with your life. He's staying here, to get on with his. Don't make a big deal out of it._

Trapper lay on his cot and stared up at the ceiling, while something that sounded very like his father's voice continued its monologue in his head.

* * *

He woke the next morning to reveille and the happy realisation that his hangover had gone. It didn't make turning out for Frank's morning line-up any less of a chore, but Trapper felt more philosophical today. With only three more days in Korea, he could afford to be more resigned about Frank's reign of tyranny.

Before he went on duty, he stuck his head into the office. "Hey, Radar! How's it going?"

Radar looked up with a harassed expression from a desk mounded with paperwork, a pen wedged behind one ear. "Uh, okay, sir. At least, it will be okay if I can get these reports typed up ready for Major Burns to sign by lunchtime."

"Never mind Frank's autobiography," replied Trapper, leaning in the doorway. "I mean, how's it going with tracking down Hawkeye? You managed to find out where he's staying yet?"

"Not yet." Radar looked even more harassed. "I've called all those numbers you gave me, some of 'em twice, but no-one's seen Hawkeye. At least, they say they haven't."

"You did tell them it was serious?"

"I told them it was a life or death situation, like you told me to." Radar nodded. "But no dice. He's not staying at any of the places I called."

"So call some more places," Trapper instructed. "Work your way through the Tokyo telephone directory if you have to. Just get hold of him, Radar."

"I'll do my best."

"That's good enough. I believe in you, Radar. You've never failed yet." Trapper turned away, leaving the young corporal to his work.

* * *

Two days and several dozen long-distance phone calls later, Trapper was forced to accept the unhappy realisation that there was a first time for everything. Radar finally had to admit that he'd struck out. He sat forlornly at the radio switchboard the evening before Trapper's planned departure, looking up helplessly at the doctor. "I'm real sorry, Trapper. I tried calling everywhere."

"I know." Trapper sat on the edge of the desk, edgy with frustration. "It's not your fault. I just… I don't want to leave here without having talked to him."

"Maybe you could write him a letter?" suggested Radar hopefully. "I'd make sure he gets it, as soon as he gets back here."

"It won't be the same thing, Radar." Trapper shook his head.

"Hey, you might even wind up bumping into him at Kimpo!" Radar perked up a little. "I mean, we don't know what flight he'll be coming back to Korea on, but could be he'll get in before your flight takes off, and you can have a drink together there before you head on home, and - "

"You've been reading too many dime novels." Trapper let out a heavy breath.

Radar looked crestfallen. "Sorry, Trapper."

The outer door creaked open, admitting Frank bearing a clipboard and an aggrieved expression. He began talking while he was still on the move. "Corporal, do we have any more whitewash in stores - " Then he noticed Trapper, and came to a halt. "Hm. What are you doing here, MacIntyre?"

"Wasting everybody's time, it seems like." Trapper stood up heavily, before noticing too late the miserable look on Radar's face. Quickly he made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "It's okay, Radar. Forget it. I know you did your best to reach him."

"Reach who?" Frank demanded.

"Captain Pierce in Tokyo, sir." Radar spoke pacifically. "Captain MacIntyre needed to talk to him – to uh, talk about – uh - "

Trapper came to his rescue. "To tell him about a patient that'll need watching when he gets back here tomorrow."

"Patient? Which patient?" Frank narrowed his eyes.

"Don't worry, Frank. It's all under control." Trapper evaded the question, but Frank wasn't so easily thrown off the scent.

"Oh, I'll bet. I'll just bet it is." Frank folded his arms. "You think I haven't guessed what you're up to, MacIntyre?"

"I don't know, Frank. Which of your paranoid fantasies are you living in today?"

"You're just trying to talk to Pierce so the two of you can plan some kind of mayhem for when he gets back!" Frank's jaw clenched. "Well, think again, mister. I'm telling you, I'm wise to your doubletalk. And Pierce'll have to get up pretty early in the morning to get the better of me."

"Take it easy, Frank." Trapper raised his eyebrows. "The whites of your eyes are showing."

"Oh… Phooey to you-ey!" Frank strode to his office door, where he paused. "This time tomorrow you'll be out of here, and good riddance. And as for Pierce… He'll have to get used to the fact that there's a real army man in charge of this MASH unit now, and he's just going to have to step to and knuckle under."

Trapper gave him a sardonic look. "I wouldn't hold your breath on that one, Frank. Somehow I don't think Hawkeye's the knuckling-under type."

Frank gave him a scowl, which he then turned on Radar. "Corporal, you're not to put through any more calls to Tokyo. That's an order!"

"Yessir." Radar glanced at Trapper, then back to Frank. "Uh, does that mean even if you need me to contact Tokyo yourself, that I shouldn't do it, sir?"

"Well, obviously in that case, my order to you to call Tokyo would countermand my previous order to you to not call Tokyo." Frank's mouth twitched. "Is that clear, corporal?"

"Uh, yessir."

"And in any case, you have reports on that desk to finish. So the sooner you stop wasting time making calls that haven't been authorised in the first place and get to work, the better."

"Yessir. I'll get on those reports right away, sir." Radar bent over the typewriter on his desk, casting a final harried glance up at Trapper.

Frank sniffed, then looked across the office. "Don't let me keep you from finishing your packing, MacIntyre. I know you've got an early plane to catch tomorrow."

Trapper suddenly felt tired of the whole deal. "Sure, Frank." He headed for the exit.

In the quiet of the Swamp, Trapper went straight to the still and poured himself a large drink. He knocked half of it straight back, standing with a frown that owed nothing to the gin, terrible though it was. His gaze roamed around the shadowy tent, taking in the familiar clutter and random furnishings of army life. The stove. The cots. The footlockers, his own now standing open, his duffle bag next to it stuffed half-full of the things he was taking home. It wasn't much: he planned to buy some presents for Louise and the girls in Tokyo, if he had time in between flights. There was little from the 4077 that he wanted to take with him.

His eyes fell on Hawkeye's cot. Slowly he took another swallow of gin. The scene he'd just played out in the office came back, with Radar's apologetic face.

_- I'm real sorry, Trapper. I tried calling everywhere._

Trapper drained his glass, then went to the still for a refill. Sitting down on the edge of his own cot with the drink, he was unable to stop the next part of his conversation with Radar from replaying itself.

_- Maybe you could write him a letter._

Trapper's eyes fell reluctantly on the notepad that lay on the crate next to Hawkeye's cot, the one he used when he wrote his frequent letters home to his father in Crabapple Cove. Trapper had envied his friend the close relationship he seemed to have with his father. He couldn't imagine himself ever writing to his own father, nor receiving a letter from him. They hardly even exchanged words these days, and back in the States Trapper had found it easier and easier to think of excuses for not visiting.

He'd written letters home from Korea to Louise and the girls, but he never found it easy to put down on paper what he was feeling, how much he was missing them. What they meant to him. He knew it, and he hoped they knew it. But spelling it out in words was hard. He could do it face-to-face. With Louise, he had always been able to show her, when the words failed him, when feelings took him to the difficult place. With his touch, he showed her. With the way he looked at her. And she got it, most times.

He'd tried to show her in his letters home, but it hadn't been the same. He knew it hadn't. He only hoped she'd understand. That when he got home, he'd be able to show her again, when he held her. That she'd still be able to read him, when he couldn't find the words.

And now it was his last night here, and he was going to be leaving first thing in the morning, and he'd tried to reach Hawkeye, to at least tell him on the phone that he was going. But that hadn't worked out. They weren't going to get even that long distance farewell. So that pretty much left only one thing.

Trapper got up and fetched the notepad, and the pencil that lay beside it. Sat back down on the bed. Stared at the blank page. Lifted the pencil and began to write.

_Dear Hawk,_

_By the time you read this I will be on a plane to Tokyo, heading for home. Sorry not to have been able to stick around to say goodbye, but my orders came through so I had to leave. I wish we'd had time to talk before I left but_

He stopped; tore off the sheet and started over.

_Dear Hawk,_

_Hope you had a good leave in Tokyo. While you were gone I got the news that my discharge came through, so I am now on my way home. It feels so good to be returning to my family, I spoke to Louise on the phone a couple of days ago and she and the girls are so excited about me coming back to Boston. It seems like forever since I last saw them. You know how slowly time goes here sometimes, especially when all you can think about is wanting to be back home with the people you care about. And now I'm really going, leaving this dump for good. Louise is planning to throw a welcome-home party when I get back, which will probably be a lot tamer than the farewell party folks threw for me here. It was a great night, you should have been here_

He stopped again, crumpling the second sheet into a tight ball. _Jesus. _Sweat was gathering on his palms, making the pencil slippery in his grip. He breathed in and out a few times, took another swig of his drink, before starting his third attempt.

_Hey, Hawk. I am lousy at writing letters so this is probably a waste of time for you and me both, but here goes._

_I'm going home. You'll know that by the time you read this anyway, but hey: it's my big piece of news. My points finally added up and I got the big farewell from the army. I never did too well at the poker table so maybe it's just time my luck paid off._

_I wanted to say goodbye to you in person, Hawk, but it hasn't worked out that way. Radar will tell you that we tried to reach you in Tokyo, but we couldn't track you down. You always were good at doing a disappearing act when it suited you. But I wanted you know, I tried._

_There's not a whole lot I can say that will make any of this easier for you. I'm going home, and you're staying in Korea. I'm glad I'm going, but I'm sorry you're staying behind. The funny thing is, about a week ago we were in the exact same position, only the other way around. You were glad to be going to Tokyo, but sorry I was staying behind at the 4077. So I guess I know a little bit how you must feel. Though not really, because I know that what I felt a week ago is nothing compared to how you're probably feeling right now._

_I'm sorry for bailing on you. And I'm even more sorry for bailing on you now. Radar isn't the only one who lost Henry Blake, and Frank being CO doesn't even begin to be the shittiest thing about this whole situation. Radar says the new surgeon that they're sending out here is young, and comes from some sunny-sounding place in California. I hope you'll get along with him OK. I hear some Californians can be almost human, especially if you get them drunk enough._

_I'm pretty sure you'll be feeling mad at me about now. And you're right to be. I should have said goodbye to you face to face. I wanted to. But it didn't happen. I keep thinking back to what you said to me all those months ago, when we sat together in the Swamp. When you thanked me for making it all bearable. For being open and honest. For letting you lean on me._

_Well, here's the truth, Hawk. All those times you thought you were leaning on me, I was leaning right back. We got each other through the bad times. The reason I'm going home to Louise pretty much the man who left her, is because of you. Without you I don't think I could have made it through things here without losing some of myself on the way. I would still have made it, but I don't think I'd have liked what I'd become._

_You were my friend here, Hawk. And I was yours. We saw each other at our worst. And at our best. I don't think there's anyone else who's ever seen that much of me. Even Louise. I was open and honest with you because you made it safe for me to do that._

_Maybe if we'd seen each other face to face one last time, I would have told you all this. But probably not. I'd probably have said some stupid joke or one-liner, like I did when you told me how much I meant to you, all those months ago. It's a dumb habit of mine. But I'm glad you reached out, even though I didn't have the guts to reach back. You're the one who's open, Hawk. Your heart's open, all the way. I hope you never lose that. I was lucky to be your friend._

_That's about all. Except that I hope you stay safe, in every way. One day you'll be coming home too. The war can't go on forever. Stay safe, and stay open._

_Your friend,_

_Trapper._

Trapper slowly laid the pencil down, gazing at the letter. Then he carefully folded the sheet of paper in half; then in half again. For a long time he sat on the edge of his cot, holding the letter in one hand. Outside the camp had settled down into the quieter rhythms of night. In just a few hours it would be time for him to get up and leave this tent for the last time.

At last he got up, crossed the tent and replaced Hawkeye's pad and pencil where he'd found it. He put the letter in his inside jacket pocket. _I'll leave it with Radar tomorrow morning._ Already what he'd written seemed wrong: too much, or not enough. He lay down on his cot and turned out the light, trying not to think about it. He knew that if he let his mind dwell on it he'd be getting up again; turning the light back on, fetching the notepad and pencil. Tearing up the letter from his pocket and starting a fourth version. And that this would go on until morning, because what he said on a piece of paper would never be right.

Outside came the quiet footsteps of Klinger on sentry duty, passing close by outside the tent. Trapper shut his eyes and tried to think of Boston, of Louise, of his daughters. The night sounds of Korea surrounded him, as they had done for all those months. He lay still in a foreign country at war, while in the darkness a man in a dress walked around with a gun, and a few hundred yards away the OR he'd seen hundreds of bleeding bodies pass through sat silent until the next flood of casualties arrived. Which he would have no part in saving. _Life goes on. Death goes on. Whichever._

* * *

He didn't remember falling asleep; didn't dream. But a whisper close by his ear and a hand on his shoulder woke him, and it was still dark. "Trapper."

"Hawk?" Trapper pushed himself upright in the gloom and reached for the light. It clicked on to reveal Radar blinking owlishly at him. "Oh."

"It's oh-four-hundred, Trap. Your jeep's just getting fuelled, then it'll be ready to leave."

"Right…" Trapper rubbed a hand over his face, and swung his legs out of his cot. "Give me five minutes. I'll be right out."

"You want me to take your gear and put it in the jeep?" Radar glanced at the duffle bag on the floor. Trapper shook his head. "I can manage. But if you can scare me up a cup of coffee before I head out you'll earn my undying gratitude."

"There might be some left over from last night. I'll go see if I can heat some up for you." Radar headed out of the Swamp.

Trapper watched him go, half-debating whether to call him off the mission. The prospect of drinking warmed-over coffee from yesterday was so unappealing, it seemed thankless to let Radar go to all the effort of producing it… But there was also something right about letting the younger man feel he could go on one last successful quest for his friend. Trapper got up and got dressed; took one last look around the silent Swamp; then picked up his duffle and headed out into the compound.

The jeep was waiting near the main office, a driver sitting yawning in the front, a cigarette glowing in the pre-dawn gloom. Trapper nodded his hello before slinging his bag into the back, then turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Radar appeared bearing a steaming mug, which he offered to Trapper with a smile. "The cook was already up planning today's breakfast from yesterday's supper, so he'd just made some coffee – I managed to scrounge you a cup."

"Radar, you're one of the few things in this place that I'm going to miss." Trapper took the cup and swallowed a scalding mouthful. It wasn't good coffee – the army seemed incapable of producing anything like a decent brew – but at least it was hot and fresh, not to mention loaded with sugar. Radar evidently assumed that Trapper had as sweet a tooth as he did, which was happily the case. "Thanks. This'll keep me going till I hit Tokyo."

"Well, you should be there before noon. That is, if your plane gets there - on time and everything. I mean, not that it won't. They fly planes over there all the time, gee, I guess for those pilots it's just like a regular trip into town, nothing to it - "

"It's okay, Radar." Trapper spoke reassuringly. Radar fell silent immediately, but his eyes looked at Trapper; looked away. Trapper reached out and put a hand on his shoulder: gave it a squeeze and a small shake. "Don't worry. I'll be home before you know it."

"Yeah." Radar still kept his gaze averted. Trapper gave his shoulder a pat; swallowed the last of his coffee, and handed Radar the empty cup.

"Well… I guess I better get going." Trapper shrugged his jacket more closely around himself, suddenly conscious of the pre-dawn chill. A faint crackle of paper came from his pocket. He needed to reach in there, take out the letter and give it to Radar.

_Hawk'll come back here hungover and beat and the first thing he'll get is that letter. Which will make everything right, sure. A bunch of words you wrote with a glass of gin inside you, dutch courage and excuses so you can go on home and feel okay about leaving him here. It's not enough. Nothing could ever be enough; for what he did, for what he meant to you in this place._

Radar was still standing there, a look on his face that showed he was just about holding it together. _The last time he did this it was for Henry Blake._ Trapper found his gaze and held it, giving him a smile. "Take care of yourself, Radar." He stepped forward and embraced the younger man in a bear hug before pulling back, hands still resting on the younger man's shoulders. "That was for you. And this is for Hawkeye."

This time when he pulled Radar back into an embrace, he closed his eyes as his arms wrapped around Radar's shoulders. A sudden fierce ache came in his chest and throat and for a moment it wasn't Radar he was holding. Before he could think about it he turned his head and kissed the cheek next to his. Just one kiss, but he felt the body next to him go rigid.

Trapper pulled back, his eyes opening, and saw the shock and confusion on Radar's face. And just like that, the barriers slammed up inside him. He took another step back towards the jeep and pulled a grin onto his face again, before Radar could see the water in his eyes. "There you go." His voice was almost normal. "Make sure Hawkeye gets it."

Radar was red to the roots of his all-American corn-fed Iowa hair. "Oh, _gee_… I _can't_…"

"Sure you can." Trapper swung himself into the passenger seat of the jeep. "Just tell him it's from me."

The driver started the engine and Radar stepped back a little. Trapper smiled at him, lifting one hand in a mock-salute. "At ease, soldier."

"G'bye, Trapper." Radar's hand raised too, as if to return the salute; but instead he paused, then reached out. After a moment, Trapper took Radar's hand in his own, in a tight handshake. Then they let go; the driver crunched the jeep into gear and Trapper turned to face the road ahead as they drove away.

* * *

It must have been a quiet day in the Korean war, because apart from a few checkpoints the journey to Kimpo passed uneventfully. Trapper didn't know the enlisted man who was driving; still less did he feel like making conversation. Once he'd been dropped off at Kimpo airbase it felt like he was leaving a party where he'd overstayed his welcome. He had his travel papers checked and stamped; watched his name found and crossed off a boarding list by a totally uninterested clerk; waited for what seemed like an interminable time on a wooden bench in a room half-full of other lucky departees bound homewards.

The coffee Radar had finagled for him gradually wore off. Trapper fell into a blank place, a limbo between here and there. It wasn't until he walked across the dusty airfield and boarded the C-54 Skymaster that some of the blankness began to lift. As he buckled himself in, a blue-jowled major in the next seat glanced at him before appearing to decide that army surgeons were beneath his notice. Trapper could have cared less.

The C-54's prop engines began to turn, and the plane slowly started to taxi towards the runway. Trapper looked past the major through the smeary window, out at the last morning in Korea he was ever likely to see.

_Life will be going on at the 4077. Frank'll be yelling at Radar. Hotlips will be making some poor nurse's life a misery. Father Mulcahy, Klinger, everyone… For them it's just another day._

It already felt distant, a thousand miles away. Trapper leaned his head back in his seat and closed his eyes: let out a sigh. Thought of Louise, Becky, Kathy.

_And sometime today, Hawkeye will arrive back there._

The C-54 started moving down the runway, and Trapper saw Hawkeye getting back to the 4077, getting his message from Radar. His friend. The guy he'd gotten closer to than any other man he'd ever known. Or ever would know. As close as brothers, only not like his own tribe of scrapping, punishing older brothers, all carbon copies of their father. That was what he was leaving behind. The only real friendship he'd ever had. Daring to let the feelings in. A gift.

_You fucked up_. _You let him down. You didn't have the guts to leave him that letter._

The engines were throttling up now, the plane accelerating.

_I'll mail it from Tokyo. I'll write him from the States._

He knew it wasn't going to happen. Because without Hawkeye, Trapper John MacIntyre didn't dare to let those feelings in.

_You're a surgeon. You can dance through internal organs with one hand behind your back, but this whole feelings thing you've flunked out on since third grade. So let it go. You're going home. Let him go._

Sitting in his seat, he could feel the outline of the folded letter in his inside jacket pocket. It sat there, over his heart. He felt the lift and the sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach, as they took off. As Korea and everything in it fell away.

_So long, Hawk._

He kept his eyes closed, but that didn't stop it happening. Somewhere over the Sea of Japan. Something Trapper John hadn't done, since he was eight years old.


End file.
